The Name is Arthur Kirkland
by soisforte
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy has just killed a man. The problem is, he can't remember it, or anything at all. He's hoping that the mysterious Arthur Kirkland will give him some answers, but instead he is caught in a web of power struggles that he never dreamed of.
1. amnesia

_A/N: Spy stories are so much fun. :) For now, just a drabble. I don't know if I'll finish it, but for now… since I have lots of time, it being summer and all… full speed ahead! yeah!_

**1. amnesia**

Francis Bonnefoy woke up suddenly after a long dream of nonsense.

Somehow he was lying on the floor, his head throbbing like mad. He carefully pried his eyes open, and blinked as the bright flourescent lights hit his pupils. There were voices and screaming around him, but they seemed far away, like he was hearing them underwater. _What's going on? _He was barely conscious of his body; it felt like he was watching through a dream.

_Am I really awake?_

He closed his eyes and focused on sensations. He seemed to be wearing a blazer, slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie. Why was he dressed so formally? And where was he? He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side.

What he saw shocked him. A pale man lay on the floor beside him, mouth slightly open, red eyes wide open. He wore an expression of shock… everone seemed shocked where he was. An open, round wound in his chest might've been the cause… it was pouring out blood, spilling on the floor.

Someone grabbed him by the lapels of his blazer, and hauled him up so he was on his feet. He cringed, the sudden change of his position made him feel dizzy. His vision blurred, his head felt faint, he thought he would tip over at any second, but the pool of red by the man lying on the floor kept his eyes in focus.. or maybe worse. It seemed to warp before his vision, growing bigger and sharper as if he were looking through a magnifying glass. As he watched, the blood spread across the clean white floor. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was just… so… _dark. _Maybe he'd been expecting for it to be, he didn't know… redder? It was always brighter in the movies, but here it was, in real life, the sharp irony tang hitting his nostrils and he couldn't get over it!

There was blood coming out of a man! And he wasn't moving!

Francis tried to put his hands over his face, to cover the image of that poor helpless man lying on the floor with blood pouring out of his chest, but realized that his hands were weighed down with lead. He looked down and there was a heavy metal object in his hands. What was it? It fit his hand well, with his index finger curled around a curved section. A cylinder thing extended out past his index finger and it gleamed darkly in the light. Francis felt chills run over his back, as if his body remembered what it was. _Une arme à feu._

"Francis! _Mi amigo!_" Someone shook him from the back. "What are you doing?"

Francis realized that someone was still gripping him by the elbows and he turned to see a tanned man with curly bedheaded brown hair and eyes like two round green grapes. His features were open and innocent, and were twisted with worry and anguish.

"Francis!" he cried, using his hands to turn Francis around so that they were facing each other. "Answer me!"

Francis opened his mouth, but then he realized he didn't have anything to say.

The tanned man had started sobbing. "What are you doing, Francis? Why did you do this?"

Francis didn't know what he was talking about. "What did I do?"

The other man stopped crying and stared at Francis in shock. "Wha—you… don't… remember…?"

Francis frowned. "Should I?"

The tanned man let go of Francis. "How—what…"

Francis stared at him. "Did I do something?"

The tanned man only shook his head in astonishment, tears still running down his face. "Francis…"

"Get away from him." A new, commanding, _British _voice echoed throughout the room. Francis turned to see a smaller, petite man with short, shaggy blond hair and bright green eyes standing in the doorway of the room. He was dressed in a leather jacket and skinny jeans, and he held a device in his hand that looked a lot like the one Francis held. The most striking feature of the man, however, was his unusually thick eyebrows, which accentuated his piercing stare.

The tanned man let out a small gasp. "Unh?" he said in surprise.

"I said, _get away from him._" The British man advanced, his boots making clacking noises on the white tile. "I'm not afraid to use this." He raised the gun towards the tanned man.

The tanned man whimpered. "B-but Gilbert—"

"—is dead." The British man stopped at the dead Prussian's body, silently surveying the broken pale form, the still-open empty red eyes. He leaned down and passed a hand over Gilbert's face, closing his eyes. "You can't bring the dead back, Antonio."

The tanned man—Antonio—swallowed. "How did you know my na—"

His words were cut off by the Brit placing the gun at his throat. "Now, the police aren't here yet and everyone else has cleared out just cuz Gilbert's so ugly when he's dead. But unless you want to be dead too, then you will shut up."

Antonio gulped, and nodded without a word.

The blond man lowered his gun and nodded at Francis. "You, however, are going to come with me."

Francis frowned. "Why?"

The Brit set his mouth in a hard, firm line. He was obviously not used to being questioned. "Because you are! Now get your bloody arse over or I'll have to create another reason for you to freak out about." He eyed Francis's gun. "And put that on the floor, would you? I prefer to be the only one around here able to shoot someone."

Francis put the gun on the floor and followed the Brit out of the door.


	2. situation

_A/N: drabbledrabbledrabble :D Funnily enough, I thought of this whole elaborate plotline to go with this lol. To think that I only wrote the first chapter on a whim...  
>But now that I read it over and stuff... I realize I have no idea what I'm doing. OTL.<em>

* * *

><p>They walked down the stairs, and out the door of the complex. Francis looked behind him. It was a tall white-brick building with lots of windows. "What was that place?" he asked the other man.<p>

"What, you don't remember?" The Brit set off on a brisk walk and Francis hurried to keep up with him.

"No, I don't."

"Shame." He turned a corner, to a place with more skyscrapers. Francis saw that he wasn't going to answer the question.

They walked on in silence, when suddenly, something struck Francis.

First off, who was this man? Francis had never met him before in his life. Or so he could remember, but he couldn't remember much. For a second, he tried to remember his childhood... and found he could only recall blurry images of blond children... his siblings, maybe? He couldn't remember ever having siblings, but that thought alone didn't count for much.

_Ughh!_ Francis was digressing. All right. So he didn't know this guy, what with the weird bushy eyebrows, and the _totally_ inconspicuous leather jacket and skinny jeans. Then he realized the guy was totally _punk!_ And it kind of made him recoil a little bit in disgust.

Second of all, Francis had no idea where the man was leading him. What if the guy was a serial killer? He certainly looked like one. He carried a gun for Pete's sake! What if the guy was leading him to a crack house or something? Francis's palms began sweating, and he wiped them on his slacks.

The blond man turned into a parking garage and Francis nearly ran off the curb; he didn't expect the turn. It was sort of an odd place to go, seeing the British man had come into the a building with a _gun_, of all things, and you would think that he had a motorcycle parked in front of the building. But no. He had parked in a parking garage.

But in a Mercedes-Benz. Francis had to give him that. A nice silver Mercedes-Benz.

"Get in," the British man said briskly, opening his jacket slightly. The gun inside caught a little bit of light and flashed a dark titanium. Francis swallowed and slid into the passenger's side.

Next thing he knew, the car had practically flown out, tires squealing, and sped off towards the interstate at a speed that was probably illegal. Francis stared out the window at the unfamiliar landscape. "Where are we?"

"New York," the Brit said in a clipped tone. "More specifically, Manhattan."

Francis blinked. He'd heard that city name before, somewhere back in the past... The name stirred something in his memory.

_"I have to leave. I just... I'm sorry."_

_"Why?"_

_"Francis. You know why. I just... can't. I can't stay here. Not with you and not for this long. Doing this is putting you in danger."_

_"I'm not afraid."_

_"But I am."_

Francis rubbed his forehead. None of this was helping his case of memory loss at all. Vague snippets of conversation and more blond hair-yup, just great. He officially had no idea what was going on. He figured from the hard line that the British man's mouth made that he wasn't going to get any answers from the other man either.

He tried focusing on little details in the car-the time of day (6:34 PM, judging also from the way the sun shone painfully bright in their eyes), the color of the panel, the fine leather of the seat. But his mind kept wandering back to the scene at the building. Was it an apartment? It certainly seemed like it; he vaguely remembered there being a kitchen and a living area and some more hallways and doors that lead to other rooms. It had been furnished with modern designs, sleek sofas and tables and lamps. Yeah. And the blood.

For some reason the blood really got to him. He wasn't sure why, but the sight of Gilbert lying on the floor, blood pouring out of his chest seemed to strike a chord in his chest, and Francis squeezed his eyes shut. The hollow, red empty eyes... Why did that have such a personal meaning to him?

"We're here." The Brit pulled the keys out of the keyhole in the car and climbed out. Francis hesitantly did the same.

They went inside another brick building, went up another set of stairs, and came up to a large space, decorated all in white and green. The man tossed his keys on the counter and went straight to the kitchen. Francis sat down on one of the sofas, looking around. "What is this place?"

"Safe house. What's with all the bloody questions?" The Brit came back holding two cups of tea and a plate of cookies. "Yes, I made the biscuits myself. Where shall we start?"

Francis took a cup of tea and a cookie. "First of all, who are you?"

The British man sipped delicately. "Going straight in for the kill are you? Well. I'm Arthur. Kirkland."

"That explains a lot."

He smirked. "Exactly."

Francis frowned. "At least tell me why I had to come with you." He took a bite of the cookie, only to gag. It was disgusting! _Only pigs would eat this crap_, Francis thought, and quickly washed it down with tea. Luckily, Arthur didn't seem to notice.

"Well... I'm kind of on the run." Arthur let out a small, cold chuckle. "That, and well, you just killed a man."

"I killed Gilbert?" Francis frowned. "No, that's not possible."

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh and found a remote. Pressing a power button, a TV flickered on to a news report of an young man with straight brownish-blond hair and glasses reporting in front of the same building they had just left.

"Breaking news tonight: Gilbert Beilschmidt, 26, has been found dead in the East Cross apartment complex. Police believe that the man was killed by a gunshot wound to the chest. As of this moment, they have one main suspect."

The image shifted to a picture of Francis.

"Police believe that this man, Francis Bonnefoy, was the murderer of Beilschmidt. They believe he is currently on the run. If you have any information about him..."

Arthur shut the TV off. "Now do you believe me?"

"Well..." Francis hesitated. "Sure."

"So now," Arthur took a sip of his tea, "since the police think you've killed Gilbert Beilschmidt, you're on the run."

"Is there anything more to that? Why do _you_ have to take me on the run? Why aren't you telling me anything?" Francis clenched his fist. This annoying Brit was getting under his skin, with his obnoxious British accent and his obnoxious British stubbornness. Fucking British attitude.

"The thing is, really..." Arthur leaned in until his gaze was level with Francis's. "Telling you that would put you even more in danger."

"Then what is this danger you're talking about? And why would you care about that? You only just met me!" Francis nearly screamed. The desperation was near killing him; he might as well just take the gun and shoot himself dead like that Gilbert guy back at the apartment.

_No. I take that back._ He didn't want to look like Gilbert, lying on the floor, dead, with hollow red eyes.

"Francis." Arthur's eyes were suddenly hard chips of green. "That..."

"That _what?_" Francis stared back.

It was silent in the room.

"Francis," Arthur said again in a quiet voice. "I can't tell you this. I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

Those words again. Francis curled his fingers in his hair. Why did those words... sound familiar somehow? They were just two ordinary words people said every day. But the inflection, the way Arthur said it... the words tugged on something in the back of his brain. _What was it?_

The Brit stood up. "Anyway, we're going to leave tomorrow, since this is really only a pit stop. 0700 hours exactly."

He cast a quick glance at Francis before heading further back into the apartment.

"Don't be late."

They had a quiet dinner that nearly killed Francis-Arthur had insisted on cooking, but after seeing what was bubbling in the pot, Francis thought that he should probably help. Oddly enough, the Brit complied, though he didn't look very happy about it. Francis managed to make the chicken look somewhat edible, and threw out what was in the pot, adding some prepackaged salad mix from the fridge instead. The atmosphere while they ate was tense. Francis could almost feel the silence weighing him down... Arthur almost seemed to inhale his meal, dumping his plate in the sink before heading straight towards (what Francis presumed to be) his bedroom.

Francis went to the other room, which he assumed would be his room. Who else would stay here? Opening some drawers, he found some clothes of Arthur's-they fit okay, but a little bit on the small side; Arthur was only slightly shorter than he was. _Guess I could wear these... he doesn't have much a sense of fashion, does he?_

Then he opened the closet.

Which was full of clothes that somehow fit _his _taste. _His_ size. _His _color. They even seemed a little bit worn in and a little bit familiar… as if he'd worn them before. As if he'd worn them a _lot_ before.

_What? How is this possible?_

Francis closed the closet doors, feeling a little bit shaky, when he heard a voice.

"いいえ,いいえ, 分りません。いいえ…"*

It was unmistakably Arthur. His tone of voice was agitated and uneasy—from what Francis had seen today, typical Arthur. And judging by the long pauses in between his sentences, he was on the phone. But he was speaking in a different language. Francis pressed his ear against the wall. _What is this, Chinese? Japanese? Doesn't sound like English to me._

"…どうして? …もちろんです!" Footsteps thumped back and forth, like he was pacing. "はい. はい. ありがとう…気をつけて. おやすみなさい.**" _Click_.

Silence after that.

Francis sat on the bed. It was too soft, and his body sank uncomfortably low on the comforter. He couldn't make out heads or tails of anything that had happened today. Killing a man? One he didn't remember. And Antonio, that other man… crying for something. A betrayal? Francis thought he'd have known if he'd betrayed someone.

But he couldn't remember anything so he didn't bother.

_What a long day_, he thought tiredly, and fell asleep.

_A man with golden brown hair stood at the window, watching. He could see across the street, where a man paced back and forth with a phone. He had blond hair and bushy eyebrows._

_As he watched, the bushy-eye browed man sighed, said some more things, and then hung up the phone._

"_Al…" The golden-haired man turned to see a blond woman walking up to him. "What are you doing?"_

"_Nothing, Bella," he said absentmindedly. He had no romantic feelings for her, but they had known each other for a long time, long enough to almost be friends. And at the moment, they had the same goal, the same objective to work towards._

"_Hmm…" she stretched and yawned, peering out into the dark night. "When do we start? I'm getting tired of waiting."_

_Al smiled faintly. "Soon, Bella." He patted her shoulder._

"_Soon."_

* * *

><p>* No, no, I don't understand. No…<p>

** How come? …Yes, of course!... Yes. Yes. Thank you… Take care. Good night."


	3. origin

_A/N: Mathias Køhler is Denmark. Sorry, this is kind of a long chapter... but it's pretty important, nonetheless. I enjoy writing Denmark ~_

* * *

><p><strong>3 - origin<strong>

They were on a highway. The empty noise of cars whooshing by woke Francis, and he sat up, squinting his eyes against the bright light.

Somehow he'd been lying down on the backseat of an SUV with a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He turned his head up to the front, where a man with blond hair was driving.

"Morning," Arthur said briskly. He was driving, eyes fixed on the road. Francis couldn't see his face, not even through the rearview mirror. His bushy eyebrows blocked his expression.

"Where are we?" Francis asked, rubbing his eyes. He leaned back against the window and watched the cars go by.

"Bloody hell, how many times are you going to have to ask that?" Arthur snapped. "We're on a highway and we've just crossed the border from New Jersey to Pennsylvania. Happy?"

Francis shrugged. "Can't know for sure."

Arthur didn't say anything.

That night, around midnight, Arthur finally pulled the SUV off the highway and into a parking lot of a run-down bar. It was old rustic brick, with a green sign embossed with gold letters that read "The Three Danes." The windows showed a full party inside, with warm yellowy lights hanging from the ceiling. Francis curiously peered out the window, only to smash his face into the glass a second later, as the Brit swerved around the building to park in the back.

"What was that for?" Francis rubbed his nose and glared at Arthur.

"We're staying the night," Arthur said sharply, and promptly let himself in the back door with a key that Francis hadn't noticed before.

Francis rubbed his still-throbbing nose. Arthur was driving him insane, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. The Brit hadn't revealed anything about where he'd come from, why he took Francis in the first place, why he was on the run. Even so, the mystery kept him on his toes. The eyes drew you in somehow, just the green color, always ice-cold, always steely, hiding a secret.

Francis wanted to know what his secret was.

"Oy!" The obnoxious British voice floated through the doorway. "You coming in or what?"

Francis grimaced. Arthur was back to annoying again. "Yeah."

Inside, there was a huge crowd of people drinking and laughing and in general having a good time. Behind the bar stood a man with blond hair that stuck up in waves. A huge grin lit his face and his blue eyes were open and full of laughter. He was wiping a glass and chatting casually with one of the customers. He had large hands, rough and callused, with an odd, long scar at the base of his right thumb.

Suddenly, the blond man looked up to see Arthur and Francis walking in. "Arthur!" he hollered, and waved the two of them over. "It's been so long!" he said, throwing his arms around the Brit.

Arthur laughed (much to Francis's shock) and embraced the man back. "Mathias, it's good to see you, too."

_Mathias, _thought wondered how they knew each other. Long enough for Arthur to look like that around the guy, probably. Or maybe he was just putting on a show for all of the innocent bystanders? Francis scratched his beard awkwardly while the two laughed and chatted like schoolgirls. How annoying.

"So," Mathias said, peering at Francis with interest. "Who's this friend ya got, Arthur?"

Arthur laughed again (he was really starting to creep Francis out) and motioned for Francis to come closer. "This is Francis Bonnefoy. He's a family friend."

Francis shuffled nervously forward. "Uh… hi." _So much for being smooth. Good job, Francis._

"It's good to meet you, Francis. I'm Mathias Kohler." Mathias grinned. "Arthur and I have been friends for, Pffft, forever."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Only since high school, Mathias."

Mathias threw his hands up. "Same difference!"

Suddenly, a loud disturbance erupted from the middle of the bar, in the crowd. Francis strained his head to see a brunette with an odd hair curl protruding from the front of his head facing off against a Chinese man with a ponytail. Both were flushed and angry.

"Pasta," began the brunette, "was invented in ITALY!"

"Arrogant whites!" screamed the Chinese man. "It was invented in China!"

"It was invented in Korea!" called out a teenage kid sitting at one of the booths. He was also Asian, with black hair slicked away from his face, and an even bigger hair curl than the one the brunette had. Francis squinted. Was it just him or… was there a face inside the kid's ginormous hair curl? He hoped that it was lack of sleep or something that was making him see things.

"SHUT UP, YONGSOO!" the Chinese man raged. "Pasta was invented in China! It's why we have noodles!"

"If you say that again, I'll—" the brunette swung at the Chinese guy with his fist, promptly throwing the Asian back into one of the booths.

"Don't test me," warned the Chinese guy, and as he stood up, a wok appeared in his hand out of nowhere. Francis glanced at Arthur, wondering if the Brit was seeing these things too. Maybe Arthur had fed him drugs or something. What with the hair curls and the wok, this night was weirder than the one before. He hoped his amnesia wasn't getting to him.

The crowd cheered as the Chinese guy and the brunette guy circled around the bar, occasionally taking swings at the other. Francis wrinkled his nose. A bar fight? Really?

"Whatever you say," said the Chinese guy, "I'm gonna beat you no matter what."

"OH NO YOU DON'T," the brunette yelled, and lunged for the other.

"Hey, hey, HEY!" Mathias worked his way into the middle, holding the two apart with his strong arms. "What's going on? Lovino, Yao, you guys need to both _chill_."

"He said past was invented in Italy!" the Chinese guy—Yao—fumed.

"Because it was, chinky dickhead!" Lovino made for Yao again, but the tall man grabbed Lovino, and in a matter of seconds, the Italian was stuck in a headlock under Mathias's arm.

"Stay out of this, you cocksucking dickweed!" Lovino spat as he struggled to free himself.

Mathias's blue eyes fixed themselves on Lovino's. "I will not," the tall blond man said, "tolerate violence in my bar."

He dragged both the Italian and the Chinese man out of the building, everyone watching in silence. The door slammed from behind.

Seconds later, there was a loud, drunken scream.

"CHIGIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

The door burst open, and Mathias stood, red in the face. "So," he announced, grinning, "who's up for another round of drinks, eh?"

The bar cheered. Francis rubbed his face. _I am surrounded by weirdos._

* * *

><p>"<em>We are ready to start the operation."<em>

_Francis blinked his eyes open, squinting as bright lights hit his face. He immediately closed his eyes and concentrated on his other senses. Where was he? He really hated waking up to another scene that he didn't remember. He really hated not remembering anything, period._

_He was laying on some kind of bed, but it was really hard. Like he was lying on a bed of steel. It was cold, and he could hear people walking around him. And there was a beeping sound, a consistent beeping sound. It scared him, and the beeping grew faster._

_He tried to sit up, but found he couldn't move. _What is this?

_Then suddenly, a piercing pain in his chest, and a sudden coldness floating inside his body. Francis struggled, but his arms were tied down by Velcro straps, and furthermore, they remained limp and relaxed on the steel bed. The pain grew sharper, and panic rose inside him. _What is this? Get me out! Get me out!

_With effort, Francis pried his eyes open. And what he saw gave him a jolt._

_A sharp knife, dripping with blood, glinting in the fluorescent lights._

_He opened his mouth to scream silently as the knife lowered, closer and closer to his face…._

Francis opened his eyes and sat straight up, gasping for air. His hands fumbled and closed over his chest, which was still thankfully whole. His heart was beating steadily. The pain and the coldness had vanished. Francis sat there, hand on his scarless chest. _Thank God. It was just a dream. _He wiped his forehead, and his palms came away wet. _Good God._

He laid back down, but the adrenaline that had pumped through his system during the dream was still there. Francis rubbed his eyes. There was no way he could sleep now, not after that dream. He wondered what exactly it was. Usually people didn't feel pain during a dream… Maybe it was a memory? Maybe his memory was coming back. Then again, if all his memories were like that, he didn't really want to get his memory back.

He needed to eat something. Food would solve everything.

Slipping out of his bed quietly so Arthur, Francis made his way towards the door.

"Francis," mumbled a tired British man. "Where are you going?"

Francis gripped the doorknob. _Dammit._ Arthur was like superhuman with no emotion, sensing Francis walk across the room—even if Francis had _just been tiptoeing_—in his _sleep_. How much sleep did the man run on anyway? Was the guy even sleeping in the first place? There was no possible way Arthur could've known Francis was getting up. There were no creaky floorboards or creaky springs in his mattress. "Just to the kitchen. I can't sleep."

"What are you going to do in the kitchen?" Arthur said, rolling over so he was facing the doorway—and Francis.

_Does this man think he's my dad or something?_ Francis grimaced. "I'm just gonna eat something, that's all. What else do you think kitchens are for?"

"Whatever." Arthur yawned. "As long as Mathias is around, I don't care. But keep the curtains closed while you're in there."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Why keep the curtains closed? Afraid of peepholes?"

Arthur glared at him. "You wouldn't want to know."

Just to chagrin the Brit even more, Francis slammed the door behind him.

Mathias was in the kitchen when Francis walked in.

"Hey," he said, greeting Francis with another huge grin. He was lounging in one of the chairs with a bottle of beer, watching TV with the sound way down. "Can't sleep?"

Francis shrugged. Was the man never not happy? "Something like that."

Mathias nodded. "Come on. I'll treat you to a couple drinks, ay?"

They walked downstairs to the now-empty bar. Francis blinked in the darkness. Mathias flipped the lights on and got behind the counter. "So, what'll it be? It's on the house." He winked.

Francis scratched his beard. "Wine?"

"PFFFFT!" Mathias burst out laughing. "Dude, _no one _at a bar drinks wine! What're you talking about, man?"

Francis shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't remembered going to a bar before."

Mathias was pouring drinks when Francis said this, and he suddenly paused. "Really? You? At your age? Dude, you look like one of those players that go to bars _just _to pick up ladies. I'd have thought that you'd been to a billion bars."

"I don't know." Francis rubbed his eyes. "I don't remember anything?"

"You saying you have amnesia?" Mathias teased, punching Francis lightly in the arm.

"Yeah, actually I do."

A moment of silence.

"Whoa, man," Mathias said with wide eyes. "That…sucks. Man, I'm sorry."

Francis shrugged.

Mathias set a shot glass down in front of Francis. "There. See how you like that."

He took the glass hesitantly. It was filled with a very yellow liquid, so yellow it was on the verge of green. Mathias's eyes seemed to bore into Francis's skull.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded the bartender. "Drink up! I made this just for you, man!"

Francis drank it. It was good, smooth with an almost minty taste. "Wow. It's…. good," Francis said, licking his lips.

Mathias pumped a fist. "Yeah! Alright, that's going on the house specials tomorrow."

"What is it?"

The bartender shrugged. "I dunno. I haven't come up with a name for it yet." He cocked his head to one side and looked at Francis. "Ya know, you look kind of familiar."

Francis started. "What?"

"I dunno. I feel like I've seen you somewhere." Mathias shrugged. "Want another drink?"

They both had a couple more.

Mathias yawned. "Y'know, Francie, buddy," he mumbled drunkenly. "I'm glad you know Arthur…"

"What?" Francis sat up a little bit at the mention of the angry Brit.

"Arthur… Kirkland…" Mathias smiled tiredly. "He's a good kid… He was a good kid, growing up. I remember when he first came to my high school… it was a boarding school. Blah, blah, blah about being the best in the country, yanno? We were roomies. It was kind of funny, since he was always cleaning up after me." The bartender laughed quietly.

Francis took another swig.

"It was really rough for him," Mathias continued, staring into his glass. "He'd just been uprooted from England. Coming to America all by himself, not knowing anyone… He had guts, I could tell you that. The boarding school made it a little better. He didn't have to deal with his family.

"Arthur never told me much about his family in America, but when they insisted, I spent winter break—or, 'winter holidays' to Arthur—with them. My parents were really lax about that kind of thing…

"It was… awkward. I remember walking in with Arthur, you know, laughing about something stupid… And his stepmom suddenly comes in, and goes 'Arthur Kirkland.' And he stiffened up and looked her hard in the eye. He didn't say anything. It was so tense, I think I could've taken a knife and sliced the tension… Then of course Alfred had to come in and fuck it up… I didn't get to slice it…"

Francis stared. Mathias was a horrible drunk. He started to wonder what Arthur was like when he was drunk… _Shut up, Francis. You know the hardhead doesn't give a damn about anything. He'd never get drunk._

"Alfreeeeeed…. Efffffffffffffffffff…. Jonesssssssssssss…." Mathias yawned again. "What a weird kid. They were half-brothers, you know? They were half-brothers… Ya know Arthur's stepmom? She was Alfred's mommy… They were stepbrothers… They used to bicker a lot, but it got better… they got along better later…. Alfred… He walked in that day and knocked Arthur over… I mean, I'd seen him around campus, right, but I never really talked to him… Alfred… knocked… Arthur over… and their stepmom was watching with this really mad look and I dunno… Arthur was always fighting with her, I remember on the day after Christmas….

"I was really hungry, even though it was 2 AM, but I really couldn't sleep… I can never sleep… I have insomnia, yanno?" Mathias smiled at Francis. "But I was really hungry that day, so I went down to the kitchen, and I was gonna go in and stuff, but Arthur and his stepmom were in there… I don't remember what they said, but their faces… were really tight… like Arthur's face was wound up really tight and it was kind of scary… Especially with those eyebrows, ha ha ha…

"But yanno… Arthur did okay. He was a good kid…" Mathias laughed to himself quietly again. "He even got himself a girlfriend, right. Yanno Bella? She was one of _those _girls… Blonde hair, green eyes, sweet personality… Half of the guys at school were in love with her, but nope, she went out with Arthur for just about the longest time… They were so cute together."

Francis got a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, and his heart seemed to be very heavy for some reason when Mathias said this. He couldn't picture Arthur with a girl, let alone anyone. No… the guy was too snappish and sarcastic, it was hard to picture him in love with anyone. Somehow the thought stabbed Francis in the stomach, and he pushed the feeling away.

"Then…" Mathias leaned back and sighed. "Then he was taken.

"I was there when he was… well… Arthur was feeling more down that day… he'd been feeling really down for the past couple months now. I think by that point he'd even started taking drugs. Mostly it was acid for him… Bells had moved 'cross the country and his mom was rejecting him more than ever, yanno? And Al was off with his own friends… they didn't hang out much at school. Arthur mostly had me, but I… I don't really like to admit it, but I had other friends too. I mostly tagged along when he did acid because I didn't want him to do anything suicidal.

"We were walking across campus after dinner and Arthur was off to his secret stash of tabs…. It was in our dorm room, but he always hid it inside his textbooks. Clever, right? Especially since they're just pieces of paper… We were just hanging, like teenagers do, when suddenly, a teacher came up to us, Mr. … Mr. … what was his name again? Braginsomething…. A tall scary guy whose classes were the absolute worst. I think he was Russian or something… Anyway, he took Arthur away for a talk or something…

"And he never came back." Mattie slumped forward. "He never came back…. But that didn't matter, since I came to him… Brag-o-man came up to me two weeks later… and took me to some weird place. Weird… steel… shit… people training everywhere for something… and they took me to a room for my dorm, right? And… Arthur was there….

"He never talked to me. Not while we were there. He just never talked to me. We were partners there, always doing missions together, but he never really opened up to me again. Until… Until I proposed we would escape from there. We had to. It was ruining my life. I would go out… and… do scary things…"

Francis stammered as Mathias fell face-first onto the bar. "Mathias? Er…"

The bartender dragged himself up. "Fine… I'm fine… Yeah… I escaped… escaped with Arthur. So happy…. Don't have to do scary stuff… anymore…"

"Where? What? What did you do?" Francis leaned forward.

"Gem…Gemini…" Mathias's head fell on the counter again.

"Gemini?" Francis repeated. _Isn't that a star sign or whatever?_

"Mathias, I think that's enough." Francis turned to see Arthur walking through the door to the flat. "No need for that, all right?" The Brit patted his old friend.

Suddenly Arthur's gaze flicked towards the window. "GET DOWN!"

Before Francis could think, Arthur had thrown himself on top of him, and even as the gunshots rang across the room, the only thing Francis could think about was the weight of the Brit on top of him. He swallowed. Twice. Arthur turned his head so that his hair got into Francis's face, hands fumbling at his hips. _Oh god, what's going on?_

"Well, well, well…" A woman stood over them, arms crossed. "Look to see how much you moved on eh? First _her_ and now you're gay?"

Arthur pointed a gun at the woman. "I didn't start this."

"You can't say anything about me starting this either." Mathias stood behind the counter with a gun in his hand. He was pointing it at the woman. "Be prepared to pay hell, Bells."

She laughed haughtily. "It's definitely worth it," she said, and pointed yet _another _gun at Mathias. _Did these people never run out of guns?_

Francis, still stuck under the weight of his traveling companion, turned his head. The woman had blond hair, green eyes… _What?_

Arthur rolled off of him (finally!) and pointed the gun straight up, at the woman's head. "Bella."

Francis sat up. Gunshot holes peppered the walls, pieces of wood were missing from the booths, and several bottles of liquor on the shelves were cracked or broken, and they were pouring liquid. "Arthur… what's going on?"

"Don't talk to me right now," said Arthur stonily, still locked in a staring contest with Bella.

"Now, now, now," said another voice, and a man walked into the room, tall and commanding with golden brown hair and glasses. "Hello, Arthur."

Arthur frowned, his thick eyebrows slanting downward. "Alfred?"

He smiled coldly. "Happy birthday… brother."


	4. gemini

_A/N: Bella is Belgium; Leung is Hong Kong; and Mei is Taiwan. :) I'm not sure why I named Hong Kong the way I did…. I just picked some random name. ^_^;_

_I feel like I'm stretching that gunfight-in-the-bar scene wayyyy too much... ^_^;_

_**special thanks to Fire's Eternity for helping me with the sniper scene ~ you rock!_

* * *

><p><strong>4. gemini<strong>

"Happy birthday?" Mathias repeated.

Alfred's gaze flicked to him. Arthur tensed his finger, which was still curled around the trigger.

"DAMMIT!" Mathias yelled. "I forgot it was Arthur's birthday today! Dammit! I'm sorry man! I didn't get you anything! Will my new house special do for you?"

"Shut up!" Francis heard a small click, and he looked up to see Bella glaring at the bartender, gun pointed steadily at him. "I don't need your meaningless b.s., Mathias. I could shoot you right now… kill you right now. You'd be dead before you knew it."

"Oh, Bella," Mathias sighed. "You couldn't possibly have the guts to kill me in cold blood. No… you couldn't ever do that, could you?" He smiled, lowering his blue eyes to look at the woman. "You little bugger."

"Shut up!" she growled again.

Mathias laughed. "Do it, Bella. I dare you." He leaned forward, almost like he was teasing the woman. "Pull the trigger. Kill me."

They stood there, for a tense moment, Mathias smiling gently at Bella. Francis's heart was pounding. Don't shoot, he thought desperately. Mathias, why are you tempting her?

"I—you—" Bella pressed the gun farther into Mathias's head. "You fucking—"

"Bella," Alfred said suddenly. "Stop."

Bella glowered at Mathias. "Why? The scum deserves to die."

"He's not worth it." Alfred put a hand on her shoulder. "He's a cleaner. There's no use in it."

Mathias cocked his eyebrow, still grinning mischievously. Francis frowned slightly. Mathias? A cleaner? No… he was a bartender, wasn't he?

Bella turned her head away from the bartender. "Fine."

"Well, then. Arthur." Alfred turned his head back to look at the Brit. "You… I can't believe you… are you really with him?" The man's light blue eyes skimmed over Francis distastefully. Francis looked down. He wasn't really that gross was he? But then again, his shirt was soaked with sweat, both his and Arthur's. He sniffed the smooth fabric. It didn't smell too bad, but then again, Francis got the idea that Alfred meant something other than sweat.

"Alfred," Arthur said steadily. "You don't understand."

"What do you mean, I don't understand?" Alfred shot back. "How would I not understand?"

"Do you know what pain you put us through?" Bella put in. "Just leaving and taking everything away from us!"

Arthur, who was standing now, closed his eyes, his thick eyebrows slanting downward to make a frown.

"I saw you with her," Bella snarled. She strode up to Arthur and stuck her face in his. "I know. I know you were with her."

"What, are we still in high school?" Arthur opened his eyes and stared back into Bella's eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he added snidely.

There was a sharp crack. Francis widened his eyes. Bella's hand was nothing but a blur, but it left a bright red mark on Arthur's cheek. Francis cringed; just watching it made his own cheek tingle. Even so, the Brit remained composed. In contrast, she looked even more enraged.

"What, did you think I didn't know?" Bella hissed, her green eyes burning furiously like they were trying to burn holes into Arthur's. "I remember very clearly, Arthur. Walking through that mall and going to the food court and seeing you. You, who were supposed to be dead. They told me you were dead. Do you know how much pain I went through after I heard that? I cried every single fucking day. Moving away from you was the hardest thing I had to bear with until then, and then you died. I couldn't believe it.

"Yet there you were, sitting at one of the tables with that skanky tanned, bitch with those fucking red bows in her hair like she was still twelve years old! Feeding you pretzels and cheese, sharing food like you were in fucking Italy or something and eating pasta or something! I'll tell you the truth, Arthur." The Belgian woman grabbed Arthur's shirt, eyes full of indignant anger. "I loved you. For the first 20 years of my life I was in love with you."

"As was I," said Arthur softly. Francis swallowed. There was a cold, heavy pain in his chest, and he couldn't figure out why. The image of their faces so close together, close enough that if Bella were just to stand up on her tiptoes… He squeezed his eyes shut, just to keep the sudden, unexpected hurt from bubbling over. Francis, what are you doing?

Only when Bella's angry voice reprimanded Arthur again did he dare to peek again at the blond couple.

"Don't lie to me, Arthur," Bella said, her voice low. "I know that you didn't really love me. All that fluff in high school was nothing to you." Francis swallowed uneasily, as she drew the pistol and pointed it at his chest, right over his heart. "I knew the instant I saw you with that bitch!"

A small click as she cocked the gun. Arthur's face was expressionless.

"Bella, calm down," Alfred's smooth voice cut through the tension. "Killing him will do no good for what I need him to do."

She reluctantly stepped back slowly, lowering the gun as she went. Only when she was beside the bespectacled man again did she stop. Alfred patted her shoulder twice and inclined his head towards Francis and Arthur.

"Now, big brother," he said, taking out yet another pistol and polishing it with the cloth of his bomber jacket. "Be a good boy and answer my questions, all right? Drop the gun."

The British man sniffed in response tossed the gun to one side, towards Francis.

The American surveyed his brother carefully. "Maybe," he murmured, eyes focused on the black weapon on the floor, "maybe you'll be more keen to answer me if I… do… this." His gloved hand gripped the gun carefully and pointed it… at Francis.

Francis's blood ran cold. To have the black hole of terror pointing at him… He couldn't stop himself from panicking. His heart beat faster and louder, as if to give Alfred a clearer target. He clenched his fists. No, no, no, no, no… Stop pointing that thing at me!

"You wouldn't." Arthur's voice was hard and cold.

Alfred smiled, but it was a ghost of a smile, with no warm or humor. "Oh, I would."

"You aren't the Alfred I remember."

"And you aren't the Arthur I remember." Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "Now, big brother. Answer me."

Arthur raised his head arrogantly. "What now?"

"Why," Alfred breathed, "did you kill Matthew?"

"Why don't you ask Ivan about that?" replied Arthur just as softly.

"I already did, brother," the American said with a certain self-satisfaction. "But how?"

"I killed him because I was told to kill him," said Arthur bluntly. "There. Are you happy?"

"But how?" Alfred began walking, taking slow, measured steps around the Brit and his traveling companion. His blue eyes were fixed on Arthur, and his pistol still fixed on its target. Francis was suddenly struck by the resemblance—the man with the glasses being the powerful, hungry lion, the predator. And we're the prey.

"How?" he repeated, gun still in the air. "How did you have it in you to kill your own brother?"

Brother? Francis glanced at Mathias, who was still behind the bar. But… Arthur's brother was standing right there, pointing a gun at him. He doesn't have another brother, does he?

"To kill someone of your own flesh and blood… killing anyone is monstrous enough, but someone who shares your father, your life, someone… just… like… you." Alfred's face betrayed no emotion. "Arthur, you are a monster. Are you aware of that?"

"You betrayed us," added Bella, her green eyes shooting daggers at the Brit.

"And I plan to remedy that," said Arthur evenly.

"Arthur, don't you know?" Bella demanded. "Some wounds run too deep to be healed."

Silence for a heartbeat. Francis blinked, and, trying to ignore the pistol that was still pointing at him, carefully glanced at Mathias. He was leaning back against the bar, his hands behind his back, like he was hiding something. Francis frowned. What's going on?

"Now!" Arthur roared.

Francis felt himself being shoved out of the way, and gunshots rang out through the bar once more. Holes lined the walls of the bar, and both Mathias's and Arthur's faces were screwed up in concentration. Francis crouched under the table where he'd been thrown, while the Brit had dived behind a huge karaoke machine and was occasionally ducking out and firing shots from his pistol. Mathias, meanwhile, was squatting behind the bar, a huge machine gun mounted on his shoulder. He was peppering whatever he could hit with bullets, a manic grin on his face.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, Francis swallowed. He had to do something. Somehow, the idea of Arthur and Mathias risking their lives for him bothered him. He had just met both of them, but he rather liked Mathias. And Arthur … somehow the thought of the sardonic, perpetually angry British man dying on his account cut deep into Francis. And so, Francis, unprotected and unarmed, crawled out from under the table out into the gunfire with the intent of somehow helping.

"No!" Francis blinked. Was that Arthur shouting? It seemed far away… muffled… come to think of it, his head felt kind of light… and dizzy… He was so dazed in surprise that he let out a small yelp when a huge weight slammed into him, knocking him over. They rolled uncontrollably from the momentum into the wall.

"Francis—Francis, are you okay?" Francis snapped back to reality to see Arthur panting, his face inches from Francis's. He's on top of me again? Why me? Why?

"C'mon, Francis, don't die on me!"This time, Arthur's voice was even more strained. "Francis, are you okay?"

"I—I'm fine," Francis stammered, his heart racing, but then he felt something hot and wet on his stomach. He craned his neck to see better. And red. "Wh-you're bleeding!"

"Don't mind me," Arthur snarled, though he was still breathing heavily. "I'm fine!"

"You're not!" Francis shot back. "You need a hospital!"

The Brit glanced back at Mathias, who was still engaged in his gunfight with Bella and Alfred. "We have to go."

"What?"

"We're going!" Arthur rolled off of Francis, and crawled out. Mathias seemed to understand what was going on, because he ducked and called out to the blond pair, "Gotcha back!"

Arthur nodded and he and Francis stumbled out the bar's back door.

* * *

><p>They were on the road before Francis knew it. Arthur was driving again, but one hand was gripping his left side. His face was screwed up in pain, sweat rolled down the side of his head, he gripped the wheel tighter.<p>

Francis leaned forward from his seat in the back. "Arthur, stop the car."

"I'm fine!" the Brit grunted in annoyance, his poison green eyes staring at the road. His blond hair was dirty, matted with sweat and dust. The stinging mark from Bella's slap still throbbed a bright scarlet and dirt streaked his face. His fuzzy eyebrows knit together, deep in concentration. There was a little nick on his cheek, and it was bleeding, a small line of blood dripping down his face.

Francis hated how he noticed all these things, the planes and angles of Arthur's face, the inflection of his accent, the intensity the man radiated—it drew him in somehow, even though Francis knew he hated the man. He hated Arthur's arrogance , it chafed against Francis's own pride, causing friction, sending angry sparks flying. He hated how the man talked to him, he hated the man's fashion taste, he hated the skinny jeans, he hated his attitude, he hated every goddamn thing about him!

But for some unbearable reason, Francis couldn't tolerate Arthur in pain. "Let me drive," Francis said again. "You're going to die if you keep going on like that."

Surprisingly, the Brit seemed to agree, because he turned at the next exit, pulling up at a gas station. It was then, under the annoyingly bright white lights of the place that he saw how bad the wound was. It had stained his white button-down shirt red. Scarlet blobs dotted his right side, and blood streaked his palms. A peculiar side of Francis began to hate Alfred and Bella for inflicting the pain on Arthur.

It was back in the car and on the road again that something suddenly occurred to Francis.

"Arthur…"

A small grunt of pain and a clatter. Francis looked in the rearview mirror to see that Arthur had turned on a flashlight and was performing a miniature surgery, pulling the bullet out of his side with tweezers. "What is it?" he mumbled, wrapping a cloth bandage around his abdomen.

"Mathias… when he was drunk, he mentioned something… like… Gemini?"

The Brit tied the bandage off and slipped his shirt back on. "Gemini."

"Yes, Gemini." Francis got a little impatient, but he reminded himself to focus. Didn't want to get into a car crash.

"Really…" Arthur muttered. "Mathias, you're such an arse."

"What?" Francis demanded. "Who, or what is Gemini?"

Arthur sighed. "Francis, it's only going to—"

"What, put me in danger?" interrupted Francis. He slammed a fist on the wheel. "Why are you so intent on not having me in danger? I only just met you!"

"That's not true."

The car swerved; Francis had lost his grip on the wheel in shock, and Arthur let out an annoyed grunt as he slid to the other side of the SUV. Once the car had regained control over the road, Francis swallowed and glanced in the rearview again. "What?"

"I said that's not true."

Francis didn't say anything for a moment; his mind was still processing what Arthur had just said.

"Before you lost your memory…" Arthur hesitated. "I knew you. We were … roommates. And… family friends."

It made sense, Francis reasoned. Why clothes that were suited to Francis were in Arthur's apartment, why the Brit grudgingly allowed Francis to cook instead of being stubborn like he would have been in other situations, why the Brit was so goddamn concerned with Francis's safety.

"It almost… well you were looking for room and board. And I had both. So when you met me by accident at one of those corner markets, I couldn't refuse." Arthur was in the shadows now, since he had turned off his flashlight, but his voice sounded tired. Defeated, almost. It was an unusually vulnerable side to the Brit, and Francis had to focus back on the road. The man surprised him more and more with each passing hour.

"Then," Francis started cautiously, not wanting Arthur to refuse answer again. "What exactly… is Gemini?"

"Gemini… is an organization. Well… It does a lot of special operations."

"Like the CIA?"

"Worse." Arthur shifted uneasily on the leather seats. "Assassinations, counterintelligence, interrogations… they're a black ops organization. You don't want to know what they're doing."

"You worked for them, didn't you?" Francis kept his eyes fixed on the illuminated section of the road ahead of them. "You were an agent."

"Not now, i don't," said the blond man defensively.

"Is that why you're on the run?"

"…Yes."

A soft buzzing sound broke the silence that resulted. Arthur took his phone out, the glow of the screen illuminating his worn and beaten face. He studied it for a split second, and then motioned to Francis. "Sorry. I have to take this."

He crawled into the backseat of the SUV, farther away from Francis. "Do me a favor and listen to this while I'm talking," he said, and a pair of earbuds and an iPod flew at Francis form behind.

"Yeah… sure," Francis muttered, and reluctantly stuck the earbuds in.

* * *

><p>Arthur checked the phone's LCD display again before picking up.<p>

"여보세요?" he murmured into the speaker.

"Please don't speak to me in Korean," whispered the smooth, low voice on the other side. "It reminds me of _him_, and who knows when he might pop up again and begin to annoy me…"

"ごめん," Arthur apologized with a smile for his old friend. "Is there anything important for you to say before I hang up on you?"

"Arthur, I beg you to take me seriously!" pleaded the other man. "This is about Francis!"

The Brit's humor faded away. "I'm listening," he said.

And he was. He listened patiently as the Japanese man on the line described the procedure. It wasn't a procedure that Arthur liked. In fact, he downright hated it. It was useless and it would only put all of them in danger. Arthur could be exposed. Francis could die.

"Kiku," he said when his source was finished. "Are you sure about this?"

"I am."

"But… it could—"

"It could bring his memory back," insisted Kiku. "And Ivan is getting restless. You can't dragging the poor man around; he needs to know this."

Arthur did not say anything for a minute.

"Arthur?" the Japanese man asked.

"Yes. I have decided. It will be done. 0600 hours."

* * *

><p>It was nearly sunrise when Francis, who was following the GPS, turned into the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. The sign read Golden Dragon House in yellow letters, and several levels of building were built atop the restaurant, all painted various shades of red. Decorative dragons soared across the walls, gilded with gold and encrusted with fake jewels.<p>

The Englishman was in the back, fast asleep. Francis stopped the car and turned to look at the fuzzy head of blond hair. It was almost adorable to watch the usually snappy, stingy man sleeping. He looked less guarded, and more… innocent somehow.

Then the green eyes flew open and the thick eyebrows knit together. "What are you looking at?" demanded the Brit. "Let's get going!"

They stumbled out of the car, weary and in Arthur's case, wounded. Francis could smell the Chinese food wafting out of the air vents, and his stomach grumbled. Food sounded really, really good at the moment… the only thing in his stomach was the spirit blend Mathias had made, and that was nowhere near filling.

They were less than five feet away from the restaurant when a side door opened and a young man with Asian features walked out. His hair wasn't black, but it was a dark brown cut in a peculiar style, long strands of hair framing either side of his face and bangs falling across his forehead. His eyebrows were quite bushy, maybe enough to even rival Arthur's. His amber eyes surveyed the blond men silently.

Behind him walked out a girl with lighter brown hair but still Asian features. She looked more open and friendly than the boy and she walked right up to Francis and Arthur.

"Arthur?" she said incredulously. "I thought you wouldn't be here until later today!"

The Brit shrugged. "Change of plans."

"Did they catch up to you?" said the young man.

"Something like that… I don't know if they just got employed there, but they found us." He sighed. "Anyway, Francis, this"—he motioned to the man—"is Leung. The girl is Mei. Leung, Mei, this is Francis."

Mei bowed. "It is very nice to meet you, Francis. Let's all go inside for tea, mmkay?" She bounded inside while Leung shrugged and followed her.

"So, how do you know Arthur?" Mei asked Francis perkily as they walked up the stairs.

_How is she this perky in the morning? Ugh._ Francis shrugged. "Um… family friend," he muttered, remembering what Arthur had told him on the car ride there.

"Mei, it's five in the fucking bloody morning," Arthur grumbled. "I just want some tea."

"Okayyyyy," she chirped back, unfazed by the Brit's annoyed attitude, and bounced into the kitchen, moving around pots and pans and woks and ladles. "What kind of tea do you want?"

"_Earl Grey._"

"Arthur, we don't have that here," said Leung, locking the door. "Do you want green tea instead?"

"Whatever." Arthur plopped down in a chair. "And I want food too."

"Of course, Arthur!" Mei sang and got to work.

The room was soon filled with the smells of stir-fry and oil. Francis breathed it in deeply. _Oh my god, food! _His stomach rumbled in anticipation. When Mei set down the plates of pan-fried noodles, they were gone before you could say _I'm hungry._ Arthur leaned back and let out a sigh. "I could eat like this every day," he said. "Thanks Mei."

Francis stretched. He finally felt awake for the first time in hours. "I think… I'll go for a walk," he said.

Leung blinked. "Are you sure? You only just got to Columbus."

"I'll be okay," Francis said. "Is that all right with you, Arthur?"

Arthur hesitated, obviously thrown off by the request. "Okay."

* * *

><p><em>The Swiss man closed one eye and peered through the scope again. It was an odd scope, one that warped everything around the edges, and gave everything a greenish tint, but it magnified everything, and that was all he needed.<em>_ He licked his lips again and placed his eye to the cushion._

_He readjusted his aim on the gun, gripping the long weapon carefully with his black-gloved hands. __Turning a few levers, knobs, and screws on his sniper rifle, he frowned in concentration, turquoise eyes squinted at a certain spot on the street. _Yes,_ he thought. _That's where he'll be.

_The assassin had set up his gun on a tripod stand by the window of the hotel room. It was worn down, and it smelled strongly like mold, which was growing in between the cracks of the wall. The toilet and sink were both rusting horribly, and the bed sheets were rough and not soft at all. But it was useful in its location. The window showed a long street stretching far down both ends, and he could see a Chinese restaurant in view. He wasn't planning to stay here long, anyway._

_A crackle on his waist radio. The Swiss man looked up surprised, and he unclipped it from his belt and put it to his ear._

"_Edelweiss, speaking, over," he murmured into it softly, using a whisper. No need for the thin walls of the hotel to be put to use._

"_Has the target been acquired yet?" crackled the voice on the other side. It was low, smooth, with a slight Asian accent. "Katana, over."_

"_Target not in view," responded the Swiss man. He turned his attention back into the scope, when a man somewhere in his mid-twenties with shoulder-length blond hair and a scruffy beard walked along._

Finally_, thought the Swiss man, and repositioned his gun. His finger rested lightly on the trigger._

_The blond man outside stopped briefly at a store window that had grabbed his attention briefly._

"_Target acquired," the Swiss man muttered. He inhaled slowly. _Focus. _To the Swiss man, the blond was nothing but a target. A moving one; those were always tricky, yes, but it was a target that could also stop. And right now, it was at rest._

_The sniper was not aware that he was holding his breath until his finger tightened around the trigger and the blonde man stumbled._

_He watched the blonde man crumple onto the sidewalk. When he was sure the blonde was not moving, the Swiss man reached for his radio again._

"_Target eliminated," he said into the radio._

"_Success received," replied 'Katana.' "Good work, Vash."_

"_Thank you… Kiku."_


	5. remember

_A/N: Did anyone else get a kick out of Switzerland being a sniper last chapter? Anyone? I thought it was hilarious, yanno, since he's all trigger-happy in Hetalia? Yeah… okay. Sorry._

_* 'Jager' = the Netherlands. I think you say it like "ya-hwyr." Or something._  
><em>* That bit of Japanese that Kiku says in the middle is pronounced 'hajimemashite,' and means, 'Nice to meet you.'<em>  
><em>*If you notice in the middle, the narrative switches to present tense? That's just how I'm going to do flashbacks for now…<em>

_A bit more back story this time, except for France instead of Iggy. Sorry it's a little rushed; my writing's so inconsistent… and the chapters are getting longer and longer… ;A;_

_***I apologize for skipping last week but we were out of town =_= And I don't know if I can get any more chapters out anytime soon since we're going to be moving in a week. So I'll probably have limited access to the computer, thus not being able to churn out chapters weekly like I usually do. :/ Sorry for the inconvenience.**_

* * *

><p><strong>5. remember<strong>

He woke up quickly. It was harsh, like plunging into icy water, but when Francis's eyes flew open, they immediately closed, blinking and squinting in the suddenly bright light. He tried to put a hand to his face to shield his eyes from the light but… they couldn't move.

In fact, he couldn't move any of his limbs. He could feel the panic rising inside of him, more sweat dripping down his forehead, the adrenaline beginning to course through his veins. He shut his blue eyes. _Focus,_ he told himself.

It wasn't really working. Not that well. The most that he could figure out was that he was stuck in a sitting position and his hands were duct-taped to the legs of the chair, and his legs were bound together with something that felt kind of like metal twine. A rope was bound around his abdomen, cutting uncomfortably in his stomach and he had been changed into an ugly wife-beater and holey jeans, both dirty enough to make his skin crawl. He tried to scoot forward, maybe to at least make the chair move, but it was no use. The chair was probably bolted down into the floor.

"I see you're awake." Francis widened his eyes as a gruff voice spoke from behind him, and a tall, imposing man strode into view. He had hard green eyes, and hair that had been gelled and styled to stand up on end. An odd small scar marked the man's right temple, and a blue-and-white-striped scarf was thrown around his neck. To top it off, the guy was smoking, a huge Cuban cigar sticking out of his mouth. It was nearly finished, only a mere stub was visible and smoking.

"Who… who are you?" Francis stammered. He was still panicked, adrenaline still racing through his veins as he watched the tall man sit down in a stool across from him.

"Well, hi, my name is Jager, and I'll be your interrogator today," said the man mockingly around his cigarette. The sudden sharpness of tone scared Francis, and he tasted blood in his mouth; he had bitten his tongue that hard. "I've even brought something to make your interrogation experience so much more fun!"

It was then that Francis noticed the box that Jager carried. It was steel gray and was dotted with a bunch of dials and dashes and switches and numbers. Francis squirmed, feeling the metal wire dig into his ankles, as if his body knew what his interrogator was about to do.

Jager worked silently, still inhaling smoke as he took out wires with huge clips and attached them to the wires around Francis's ankles. The other end he attached to little metal stubs on the box. When he was finished, his hard green eyes locked back on Francis again.

Heart pumping, the back of his neck sweating, Francis swallowed uneasily.

"So, Francis Bonnefoy, is it?" Jager cocked his head to the side.

"How do you know my name?" Francis stuttered nervously.

"I'm the interrogator here," said Jager smoothly. "I don't answer you. You answer me."

"Or what?"

"Or… _this._" Jager flipped the switch on the steel-gray box.

A white-hot flame jolted Francis, sending excruciating shocks of pain shooting through his limbs. He screamed, as if maybe his voice could stop the pain.

And it was gone as quickly as it had come. Francis fell back in his chair, breathing hard, and squinted against the bright light. Jager was still gazing at him with unreadable eyes.

"Are the rules clear?" The Dutchman's even voice cut across the silence, save for Francis's breathing.

Francis said nothing. His arms and legs and abs were all sore.

"Now, Francis…" Jager yanked his cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it out on Francis's sweaty arm. The Frenchman flinched at the sudden sting, flexing his arm impulsively against the tape. No good.

"Let's begin, all right?" Green eyes surveyed Francis carefully. "What can you tell me… about Gemini?"

"G-Gemini?"

Jager was silent. He sat comfortably atop his stool, watching Francis.

"I… I dunno…" Francis mumbled. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with the tears that were threatening to spill out his eyes. _Not the pain… not the pain…._

"What was that?" Suddenly Jager's face was in close and uncomfortable proximity to Francis's; close enough that he could smell the cigar breath on Jager's tongue.

"They're a black ops organization!" Francis blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away. _Horrible breath scary eyes, horrible breath scary eyes!_

"A black ops organization, hm?" Jager grinned coldly. "And how do you know about that? Who told you?"

Silence. Francis shivered in the sudden cold of the room, and suddenly began to envy Jager's warm blazer and scarf.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Francis _Bonnefoy._" Jager's hard green eyes bored into Francis's skull. His hand reached for the switch again.

Another wave of white-hot pain and sharp needles in his arms and legs. Francis hung his head over his chest, panting.

"Who—told—you—about—Gemini?" Jager growled.

Francis shut his eyes, leaning his head back. The light hit his face, illuminating his eyelids to a reddish glow. "_Sourcils_," he whispered, a word from his memory, a word, that, even if it was his mother tongue, felt awkward and funny in his mouth. He hadn't said it in so long…

"Speaking French, is that?" Jager commented, almost to himself. "I'm not surprised, with a name like that…"

Francis opened his eyes and looked at Jager, who only shook his head and glared at Francis. "You. Talk," he demanded. "Who told you about Gemini?"

No answer, which only earned the blonde man another round of electric shock.

"Don't answer me, do you?" Jager slumped back on his stool. "You seem to care for this particular person very much."

The truth of his words stabbed Francis with the sharpness of their truth. He didn't want to admit it, but his heart protested when he told himself he hated Arthur.

"One more time, mister," Jager warned, and grabbed Francis's hair, yanking it until his head was held down by Jager's huge strong hand."Answer my question! Who—told—you—about—Gemini?"

The pain in his scalp increased and Francis squeezed his eyes shut. "Arthur!" he screamed through the pain. _Make it stop, make it stop!_

"Arthur… who?" Jager pulled harder.

"Kirkland! Arthur Kirkland!" gasped Francis. "He told me!" _Stop!_

Jager untangled his fingers from the shoulder-length blond hair attached to Francis's head. "Arthur Kirkland…You mean this man?" From inside his coat he pulled out a picture.

Francis blinked as a photo of a fair-skinned man was thrust under his face. Green face, blond hair, thick-eyebrows—it was Arthur, Francis realized with shock. The Brit in the picture wore a pale, tired expression, as if he was saying to the photographer, "Fuck you. Hurry up and press the fucking button so I can get some tea."

The sound of the Brit's familiar voice echoed hollowly in Francis's head, and his heart gave a little shudder. He wished at that moment that he could see Arthur, feel the hard gaze of the Brit's toxic green eyes, hear Arthur's sarcastic voice for real.

"Yes…" murmured Francis, closing his eyes and thinking so hard. _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur… please hear me! If by some act of God you hear me, get me out of here!_

"Interesting…" Jager surveyed Francis for the longest time. "All right then. Moving on."

Francis lifted his head, watching the Dutchman sit down again. _Arthur would be disappointed in you, _he told himself. _Fight for him!_

"Now, Francis," Jager said quietly. "Tell me… about your father."

"Father?" Francis whispered hoarsely. "I…"

"Answer me!" the Dutchman growled, jolting Francis in the sudden contrast. Jager's face was barely composed anger. His hand was clenched into a fist, trembling.

"What? What will you do?" Francis panted.

"I'll raise the voltage, that's what!" Jager snarled. "Right now, this thing is at 20,000 volts. Plenty enough pain, isn't it, Bonnefoy?"

Francis rolled his head back, sweat pouring down his face.

"But guess what? At 50,000 volts, your organs will suffer tissue damage. Or I could raise it up to 70—and then you would go into _cardiac arrest_." Jager's hand rested lightly on one of the dials.

Francis squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know, okay?" he screamed at Jager. "Okay? I don't know my father, I can't remember anything about my father let alone the life I led at all, all right? I don't fucking remember anything, so let me go home!"

"Home where?"

Francis started, eyes wide with tears still flowing out and down his face.

"As far as I know, _Bonnefoy,_" Jager sneered, "you _have_ no home."

_I do._ The words were spoken inside of Francis's head before he could think carefully. Flashes of images whizzed by his vision: a kind blond woman with long, braided hair; a tanned man with a playful attitude and an albino with a devilish grin; an unexpected kind smile with green eyes and thick eyebrows.

_Home._

Francis clenched his fist. _Stop, you're not thinking straight._

It was true. He wasn't. His stomach was empty, his throat thirsted for water, and his limbs were sore. His heart was beating erratically, his head was light and dizzy, and the paranoia was driving him crazy.

"You really don't know anything about your father?" Jager said, his fingers drumming the dials on the steel box.

"He might be telling the truth, Jager." A new voice, smooth and low, with a slight hint of a Japanese accent echoed across the room, along with the sharp sound of footsteps.

Jager jumped up with wide green eyes. "K-Kiku!" he cried. "Did Ivan…?"

As the Dutchman spoke, a small, slight Asian man came into view. His hair was cut in straight lines; bangs straight across his forehead and straight-cut bangs framing the sides of his face. His eyes were dark and solemn, and he possessed a certain stability and authority that Jager did not seem to have. He wore simply a button down shirt, a navy blazer and navy slacks, which enhanced his seriousness.

"Jager," said the Japanese man. "Ivan sanctioned this operation to be under my oversight. And it is my decision for myself to take over and continue this interrogation."

"K-Kiku…"

Kiku buttoned his blazer and looked at Jager. "That is an order."

Jager looked taken aback for a second, and then bowed his head. "Yes, sir."

He stood up and walked out into the darkness. Kiku turned back to Francis, his dark brown eyes inspecting Francis silently. "Francis Bonnefoy. 26 years of age, blood type B, 175 centimeters tall. 始めまして, Francis."

"H-how do you know all that?" Francis stammered.

"My Japanese heritage compels me to always review the details, Francis," Kiku said absently. He held a bottle full of clear liquid to the light, examining it closely. Slowly, the Japanese man reached behind him and took a needle from an invisible table, swiftly stabbing it through the top, filling the injector with liquid.

"What are you doing? What is that?" Francis squirmed in his chair, wiggling his wrists to possibly cut the duct tape. No use.

"You're not in a very good position to speak to me like that, Francis," said Kiku. He held the full needle to the light, squirting a couple drops in the air to test the needle's action. They fell on the ground, splattering noisily on the hard floor.

Francis squirmed, his breathing more audible in the silence. His heart pounded in his ears louder than ever.

The needle glinted in the bright light. Kiku seemed to notice Francis's sudden nervousness and smiled, but it was small and humorless. "Don't be alarmed, Francis," he said. "It's just a little something to relax you for a bit… we have other things to attend to at the moment so we'll just leave you here… nice… and … relaxed…" A bit of sharp pain as the Asian man stuck the needle in the Frenchman's arm.

"Sweet dreams, Francis," Kiku said, the needle clattering on a table shrouded in the dark.

Then he flicked the lights off.

xx

It was several hours before Francis realized that he couldn't feel anything.

He could see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing… it was as if all his senses were completely cut off from him. He was just floating in a dark nothingness, a shadowy void, a vacuum of life. He didn't feel dead, though. His mind still worked, and he could still think and worry and process.

It was then that the images started coming.

xx

The blond boy is only a teenager, and as he steps out of the trademark yellow taxis of New York, gossiping schoolgirls turn their heads to get a better look. He is skinny, almost too skinny, like he has not eaten much, but color is starting to fill his cheeks again, his shoulder-length blond hair beginning to look less lifeless than it had before. He is dressed well, in a simple t-shirt and jacket that somehow scream class despite its casual air.

His blue eyes scan the red brick of the tall building before him. He will not admit it to anyone, but despite his composed air, he is nervous. The last two months have been rough for him. It feels only yesterday that he watched the woman who gave birth to him 15 years ago die right before his eyes, her face pale and thin, her breathing ragged, and just like that—she doesn't move. He shuts his eyes quickly, trying to avoid the memory of her death. It is too painful to think about and he has to think about the now.

Yet a painful tug in his heart stops him for a moment. He wishes that he could be back in his native France, the language rolling off his tongue effortlessly, unlike the English that feels awkward and heavy in his mouth. He longs for the streets of Paris, the ink-dark water of the Seine, the old stone walls of the buildings… Home. He only wants to be home in Paris again, but instead he has been plucked effortlessly from France by his American father whom he only met last week, and dropped into another city, familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time.

An unpleasant car horn sounds, startling the blonde boy out of his nostalgic thoughts, and he hurries inside the door of the red brick building, swarming in the crowd along with the other kids. Inside is a maze of rooms and hallways, and the French boy, learned in English but not in practice, must draw back all of his English knowledge from the school year of before to navigate the signs.

He eventually stumbles into his first classroom, his homeroom class, so says the paper in his hand. At first, when he is told of this homeroom, he is confused as to what exactly its use is for. Now he realizes it is just a group of kids organized by name as to make organization easier. The concept is foreign to him, but he sits down in his seat anyway.

As it is, his seating arrangement places him next to a pale boy—an _extremely_ pale boy—with nearly-white hair and reddish-tinted eyes. The French boy wonders if the boy is albino, what with the boy's milk-white skin and thin, near anorexic limbs. His sickly appearance does not match his personality at all, though, as he is standing atop his chair and yelling across the room.

"Antonio!" he calls, a wicked grin on his whitish face, a peculiar craziness lighting his crimson eyes. "Get your ass over here!"

A tanned boy with messy dark hair and—oddly enough for his age—wide, innocent green eyes bounds over from his seat in the back corner. "What is it?" he whines. "I already gave you back all the CDs I borrowed from you over the summer!"

"No, you forgot one!" Gilbert climbs down from his chair and plops down in his seat, arms supporting his head and hands cupped around his chin. "You didn't give back my Incubus one."

Antonio hit his head with his palm. "Gilbert! You never gave me that thing to begin with!"

"Uh, yes I did," says the albino boy, laughing like _What, are you stupid?_ "It's not at my house so it must be at yours."

"Well it's not! Why don't you go see if Luddy has it?"

"Why would he—hey, what are you looking at?" The blond boy starts, as he suddenly realizes that Gilbert is talking to him, his red eyes not openly hostile, but cautious.

"Gilbert!" Antonio hisses, prodding the other boy with his finger. "That's the new kid!"

"Ohh… the new kid, is that?" The albino boy cocks an eyebrow. "What's your name?"

"F-Francis," says the French boy. "Francis Bonnefoy." The name rolls off his tongue, as it has many times before.

"Oh… you a Frenchie?" Gilbert laughs. "That's a name for pricks!"

The French boy recoils, stung by Gilbert's remark. "It's a common name in France!" he snaps back, and immediately regretted it; his accent is more obvious than ever.

Antonio puts his face in his palm while Gilbert howls in laughter. "In France? Well, I'm Gilbert—not Gilbo, mind you—but you can call me 'Your Awesomeness."

"Can't I just call you Gilbert?"

The albino boy pouts. "Fine. Whatever. As long as you don't mooch off me all the time, like this little airhead here."

"I am not an airhead!" cries Antonio indignantly.

Gilbert laughs while his tanned friend protests some more, attempting to shake off the label given to him by the albino.

That was the first time Francis encountered his future best friends Gilbert Beilschmidt and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

xx

The man in the supermarket wears clothes that seem too high-class for the run-down store. They are too fancy for this place, this time of night. They are the kind of clothes with designer labels, handmade in Europe.

They are the last luxuries that the man has.

It is nearly summer in New York City, and even in the night, the air is thick with smog and heat. It is suffocating, and the fans in the market provide little relief.

The man wipes his forehead, brushing shoulder-length blond hair out of his eyes and pushes his cart forward. He is tired, but hungry, and he doesn't seem to eat nearly enough. Most of his day is spent among easels and paints, inhaling fumes of turpentine and acrylics. Food is the last thing on his mind. He has more important things to worry about, like his semester project, the one that will make or break his grade in his class. He doesn't want to fail.

But even heavier on his mind is the fact that he has nowhere to live. He usually doesn't care much for practical things like this, but now, since it is right in his face, it is almost too late. It is only a matter of weeks before he has to move out of his dorm housing, and no one can give him board. Not the playful Italian prodigy he has befriended in class; he is going to travel home to visit his grandfather in several weeks. Nor can his two old friends from high school help, either. Antonio is finishing studies overseas in Europe, and Gilbert has simply disappeared. The Prussian hasn't contacted any of his friends since they graduated from high school.

No, Francis is all alone now, pushing around a shopping cart in Manhattan at midnight. At least it is in Manhattan; he would not be able to get away with something this ridiculous in any other place in the world.

It would have been so much easier if his father was still—

"Are you Francis?"

Francis turns at the sound of an unfamiliar voice to see a man standing there, cell phone in one hand, shopping basket in the other. He is quite handsome—that is the first thing Francis notices. His face (artistically speaking, of course—Francis has picked up a habit of studying people's faces since he started doing serious portraiture in high school) is beautiful, fair-skinned planes and angles balanced with soft curves. His nose is long and straight, contrasting with the subtle curves of his thin mouth. His eyes are round and green, like the fresh leaf of spring, the kind of color that drives Francis crazy because it's impossible to mix. A soft fringe of blond hair brushes his forehead, resting over two thick, dark eyebrows, rather like caterpillars, Francis thinks. The inner artist of the Frenchman wishes he has his paints with him so he could paint the man.

"You're Francis Bonnefoy, aren't you?" The man speaks again, and Francis can hear the British accent in his voice.

"Do I know you?" Francis frowns slightly, although he is still scanning the Englishman. He (the Englishman, that is) is very slim, perhaps on the verge of anorexic, with dark clothes that Francis can turn his nose up at—_punk fashion_.

"I was a coworker of your father's," says the man, stowing his mobile phone away in the pocket of his skinny jeans. "I was at his funeral."

He's right. Francis vaguely remembers a similar looking man with shaggily cut blond hair and slim figure sitting behind him during the memorial service. Francis nods carefully. "I see."

"Yes. Well. I have some business to attend to … and unfortunately it involves you." The Englishman wrinkles his nose slightly in disgust. "Why don't we go get coffee or something?"

Francis mostly follows him out of curiosity. They end up sitting in a Starbucks that is open 24/7, and the Brit introduces himself as "Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland," and shoves an envelope in Francis's hands. The writing inside is his father's. Francis frowns slightly; he has barely talked to his father his whole life, not even after he came to America from France. Even after his father's death, Francis is only supported with enough money to finish art school in the city. Other than that, Francis has nothing.

The Frenchman scans the letter. His father informs him that should he need any assistance at all, Arthur can help. Francis eyes the Brit a little wearily. While Arthur is very good-looking, looks aren't everything, and Francis certainly doesn't like his attitude.

But Francis remembers he needs a place to crash. And it's shown up on a silver platter, dressed in a punk t-shirt and skinny jeans. The Frenchman recoils a little bit at Arthur's taste, but he has no choice.

He opens his mouth.

"Can I move in with you?"

xx

Francis has learned a lot about Arthur over the three months that they have lived together.

He has learned that Arthur enjoys a variety of hobbies: cooking (although most days Francis cannot stomach the Brit's culinary creations, and ends up cooking), needling, playing guitar. The Brit also wears a lot of business clothes, but when he takes Francis out to the bar, he often wears shirts with grungy logos and jeans that are torn in the knees.

He has been painted many times by the French art student, but no matter how hard Francis tries, he can never capture the same spirit that Arthur has. It isn't a _joie de vivre_; Arthur is snappish and snarky most of the time. It is something deeper and darker and sadder than that. Francis doesn't know what it is, but he wants to find out. Arthur isn't willing to tell him.

The only thing Arthur does tell him is that Francis is in danger. Some sort of grave danger. Francis doesn't believe it—it's a ridiculous idea—but Arthur is insistent. Francis knows, because once he came back to the small apartment the two shared very late. Maybe 4 in the morning? He was only out with friends from art school—Sadik, Heracles, …Feliciano was in Italy now. But New York City is just as alive at night as it is in the day, and Francis doesn't mind having to put up with his two always-bickering friends, since they fight less when they're drunk. But when Francis turns the key and walks into the apartment, Arthur is furious.

"You're late!" he snarls while Francis drops his keys on the counter.

"I was just out with some friends, _lapin_," Francis chides back, using his affectionate nickname for Arthur. "Don't worry."

"You could get killed!" Arthur insists. "You know what I told you about being in danger! There are people out there who want to kill you!"

"Of course there are," Francis says. "Muggers and thieves and such."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Arthur puts his head in his hands. "There's been so much going on lately… _I'm_ putting you in danger."

Francis is dumbfounded. He wonders what Arthur could do; the Brit had an attitude but it didn't mean he could do damage. Or could he? Francis wouldn't know. The Brit was still a mystery to him, even after they'd shared an apartment together for 2 months.

It is only a week later that Francis realizes that Arthur is more dangerous than he looks.

The French art student is in the studio for the summer programs, working on a project, when his phone buzzes. It's a text. From a number that Francis hasn't seen in a long time.

_Its me tony. Gilbo is back 2 lets get 2gthr 4 a drnk, k?_

Antonio with his use of chat-speak. Francis smiles to himself slightly and taps back _Sure, why not_. He looks forward to meeting his friends again, especially Gilbert, who he hasn't seen or talked to or even Facebooked for who knows how long.

But in the afternoon, as Francis is getting ready to leave, Arthur notices.

"Where are you going?" he demands in his British accent. Francis scoffs.

"Out. With friends."

"Who?"

"Antonio. And Gilbert."

Arthur sits up. "Gilbert? Beilschmidt?"

Francis frowns. "Yes, do you know him?"

The Brit turned very pale. "No… it's just… I… I have to leave. I just... I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Francis. You know why. I just... can't. I can't stay here. Not with you and not for this long. Doing this is putting you in danger."

"I'm not afraid."

"But I am."

Francis watches in shock as Arthur reaches in one of the kitchen boards and pulls out something heavy and silver. Francis has always seen it on those TV shows, but…

"Why do you have a gun in your house?" Francis asks shakily.

Arthur doesn't say anything, but hands it to Francis. "Use it."

Francis nearly drops the thing, it's unexpectedly light. "W-why?"

"You'll need it." Arthur puts his hands on Francis's shoulders. "Good luck."

It is almost in a dream that Francis walks over to Antonio's new apartment. He can feel the weight of the heavy silver in his coat pocket, and thoughts are whirling around in his head. Broken bits of images and memory flash before his eyes—Arthur's steady green gaze, the gun, Antonio's text, the pale face that Arthur had when Francis brought up Gilbert's name… He wonders what was going on and why he would need the gun. Francis has never touched a gun in his life; and he isn't one for those crime shows where they fired guns every single episode.

Then he walks into Antonio's apartment.


	6. escape

_Author's Note moved to the end._

**6. escape**

Antonio always greets people with a big hug. It is a bit disorienting to people who are not used to it, or him, but Francis welcomes it as a relief from the burden of the weight in his jacket.

"Francis! Long time no see, amigo!" Antonio says, his tongue slipping back into the Spanish he grew up with.

"You, too, Tony," Francis says warmly, embracing his warm friend.

"What? No hug for the awesomer of your best friends?" A silver-haired head pops up behind from behind Antonio, a smirk that Francis has seen millions of times on his face.

"I've missed you too, Gilbert," Francis laughs as he hugs his other good friend from high school.

"Come on in, Frannie," Tony says, ushering the Frenchman inside. They walk inside, talking and laughing, Francis smacking Antonio's ass once. The apartment opens out into a small living area, where there's a bar connecting the room to the kitchen. Gilbert and Francis seat themselves on the steel-gray stools in front of the bar while Antonio bounces behind it.

"So, _amigos_," Tony says, rubbing his hands together. "I went to Italy to learn to be a barista!"

Gilbert laughs. "You? A barista?"

The Spaniard looks hurt. "Yes, really! But you can check out what I can do now!"

And out of nowhere, he takes coffee, laden with creamy foam, pours it into two cream-colored mugs and somehow, using a toothpick, shapes the cream into a heart, green eyes narrowed in concentration. Francis can't process how Antonio does it, but he admires the Spaniard's newfound focus and concentration. Tony, as Francis remembers, has always been somewhat of an airhead, so to see him like this was new and interesting.

"Latte art?" says Gilbert, peering into the cups. "That's pretty awesome."

"I hand-brewed it myself," says Tony proudly. He pushes the mugs across the bar towards his friends.

Both Francis and Gilbert take deep swigs of the coffee. It's delicious. Francis can taste the cream and sweetness with the slight-bitter edge that still made it coffee. He looks down into his cup and sees that he's nearly drunk half of it already.

"Antonio, you need to make me coffee every single day," he remarks to his friend, and they all laugh.

"This is good stuff," says Gilbert, tossing the rest of the coffee like a shot. "I want some more."

Tony beams.

"So what else did you do in Italy?" Francis asks.

"Weeeeell," says Antonio, dragging out the word. "I met these two Italian boys—one of them is really cute! And the other one is cute too! I think he said he knew you…? His name was Feliciano."

"Feliciano Vargas?" Francis exclaims. "Yeah, he goes to Parsons with me!"

They laugh some more. Antonio takes out his iPhone from his pocket and flips through the pictures. "Here," he says, showing them the screen. "This is Lovino! He's really cute, right?"

The picture shows Antonio with a auburn-haired boy, an odd hair curl sticking up from the front of his head. Antonio is laughing, like always, the carefree Spaniard that Francis remembers from high school, but in contrast, Lovino is looking murderously into the camera with golden eyes, his mouth growling curses into the lens. His hand is on the verge of flipping the photographer off.

"Yeah… He's really cute," says Gilbert dryly, and Francis laughs. Antonio blushes.

"Are they brothers?" Francis says over his coffee.

"Yeah, they are. Their grandfather lives in Italy so every year they visit." Antonio flips through the pictures until he comes to another photo: a relatively older man with stubble like Francis's and curly brown hair. He has his arms around Feliciano and Lovino and is grinning goofily into the camera.

"Are you sure that's their _grandfather?_" Gilbert squints at the picture.

"I was doubtful, too, but I didn't question it." Antonio shrugs.

A phone rings. It's a song that's catchy and a little overplayed, not to mention maybe a year or so old.

"_Baby, I like it…."_

Francis and Gilbert exchange looks. "Enrique Iglesias?" say both of them dubiously.

Antonio grins. "C'mon guys. Have a little respect, will ya?" He checks the monitor briefly. "Oh… well I gotta take this." HE walks off towards one of the bedrooms.

As soon as the door closes, Gilbert turns his red-violet eyes on Francis.

"Give it to me," the Prussian says in a low, uncharacteristically deadly voice.

"What?" Francis can feel his heart beating faster, jumping around his chest in panic. "W-what are you talking about?"

"You _know_ what I'm talking about," says Gilbert. "Give. It. To. Me."

"I don't know," pleads Francis. "_Q-qu'est-ce que tu veux?"_

"Are you telling me you don't know?" Crimson eyes bore into blue. "Of course you know. C'mon, Francis. Work with me here."

"I don't know what you want!" Francis is nearly screaming now, scared of his friend, scared of the weight in his jacket that had disappeared suddenly, scared of his friend suddenly understanding the French that had slipped out of his mouth. He doesn't want to admit it, but he is scared.

"Well, maybe, this can tell you!" Gilbert pulls a gun out of his boot. The barrel points at Francis, so close that if Francis tried to look down the black hole his eyes would cross painfully. The nearness of the metal sends shivers down Francis's back.

"Come on, now, Francis," says his old friend. "Where is it?"

"P-p-put the gun down, please," Francis begs. "Please… don't shoot me… I'm your friend…"

Gilbert locks his scarlet eyes on Francis. The mischief that Francis remembers so well from his years in high school, the joking arrogance, the playfulness that lies underneath—all of it is gone, replaced by ice. Francis feels as if he is looking at a stranger, and when Gilbert opens his mouth, he is right.

"Francis," the Prussian says. "I'm not your friend anymore."

Francis can feel the tickling in his eyelids; it means that tears will come rushing down his cheeks soon. "Gilbert… please…."

There is a blur so fast that before Francis can blink, the gun is past, and there is a stinging in Francis's cheek.

"Tell me where it is!" the Prussian roars. He jabs the gun at Francis's forehead.

The cold metal seems to stir something in Francis's memory. His body memory. His muscles respond like they ever have before.

His hands—they act on their own—snap up to the gun at his forehead, and Francis hears a sharp crack, as Gilbert howls in pain. The Frenchman's mind can't process what's going on, and it is only when Francis looks down and sees Gilbert's arm sticking out at an odd angle that he understands what happened. A split second later, before Francis can think any more, his other arm swings itself up into Gilbert's jaw, while the other one catches the gun that Gilbert has dropped.

There's a small click and a creak in the background, Francis barely registers it as his hand points the gun at Gilbert, his best friend from high school. Francis tries to tell his hand to stop, but it is already too late. His vision warps, everything becoming clearer and brighter.

His finger squeezes the trigger once, twice. Three times.

And Gilbert falls. Francis sees every detail of it, every second, as the pale Prussian, empty of life, falls.

"Francis…." The usually light, happy voice that Francis knows well shatters the silence. The Frenchman, shaking horribly, turns towards his friend. Antonio stands in the doorway of the apartment's bedroom, tears already beginning to fall down his tanned cheeks.

Still trembling, Francis falls too.

He fades to black.

x-x

Francis woke up slowly this time around. He had more sense now. He couldn't figure out where he was if it overwhelmed him and came at him all at once.

It was relatively the same from last time he'd woken up in a painful sitting position. The room was still relatively dark, but there was still light leaking in from a bulb hanging from the ceiling, so Francis could still see where he was. It was dank and dim, with concrete walls and floor, dirt everywhere. Francis still felt awful: cold goosebumps running up his arms and legs; a horrible throbbing in his wrists, which were still bound by duct tape; a severe fatigue weighing his head down. His back felt wet, and he realized he must have been sweating during his dream.

No. Not a dream. _Memory._

Francis knew who he was now. He finally understood.

Now if he could get out of here. He wiggled his wrists reluctantly—he was still tired—to find that he couldn't rip the tape. They'd put on more tape while he was asleep.

_Merde._ He slumped forward. _Je souhaite… Je souhaite…_

A door opened suddenly in front of him. He hadn't noticed it before. All the same, he, with great effort, lifted his head to see who it was.

His heart nearly stopped. Salt water ran down his cheeks in relief, and before he knew it, the word slipped out of his mouth.

"_Sourcils,_" he whispered. _"Sourcils…_"

Arthur Kirkland frowned, his thick eyebrows turned down. Francis nearly laughed—the Brit was so cute when he was cranky—if not for the finger that Arthur placed over his lips. Then he jerked his head towards a corner of the room.

Francis could see a black circle with a small red light blinking on and off, on and off. A bug. Francis was being bugged. He sealed his lips shut and nodded briefly at Arthur.

The Brit slipped inside, and began working quickly, using a Swiss Army Knife to saw off the layers of duct tape around Francis's wrists and the coils of wire around Francis's ankles. He was nearly halfway through when the door burst open and a group of men ran in, with huge, shoulder-mounted guns pointed at Arthur and Francis. One of them stepped out of the shadows, his boots thumping heavily on the floor.

"Arthur Kirkland," said Jager, his green eyes full of mockery. He took a long drag from his cigarette. "Long time… no see."

"Ah, yes, Jager," replied Arthur with the same amount of sincerity. "Still can't kick that smoking habit, I see."

The Dutchman dropped his cigarette and stomped on it. "Oh, fuck off. You know what we're here for. Not to reminisce about the old days."

Arthur smirked. "I see you haven't changed a bit since those _'old days,'_ Jager."

"Just give it up, Kirkland," snarled a burly man with dark skin the color of black coffee. Francis could see that a cross had been shaved on the side of his short curly hair.

Arthur put a hand to his heart. "Awww," he cooed mockingly. "How adorable."

"Shut up, Kirkland!" yelled Jager. "God, I forgot what a downright cocky pain in the ass you are."

"You don't know any pain in the ass till you've seen _this_." Arthur's leg whipped towards Jager's crotch, causing the Dutchman to keel over in pain. A swift blow to the head knocked the Dutchman out. The rest of the men started towards Arthur, but the Brit only ducked and slipped out of the crowd, causing them to trip into each other. After that it was a blur of limbs, Arthur almost dancing, twisting and turning, hitting the men brutally with his fists as he went.

When they were all collapsed on the ground, Arthur dusted off his pants and took out his SAK out again hacking away at the wires and tape that still bound Francis.

"Why are you so bloody useless?" he muttered darkly, as the last of the wires snapped apart.

"You know karate?" was all Francis could manage.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That was Krav Maga.* Get it right."

His knife sliced through the tape, and Francis jumped up—he didn't have much choice, actually, since Arthur was dragging him—and ran at the door.

His head felt light, and it didn't help that all the hallways were all the same: a maze of metal and beams and concrete. Francis didn't know where he was going, and he was lucky that Arthur did. He wasn't focused on anything except for the fact that his hand. His hand, holding Arthur's, their slim fingers interlocked, their sweaty palms pressed against each other….

Francis couldn't hold it in any longer. "Arthur," he said faintly. "I think—"

"You'll have to tell me later!" snapped the Brit. "This is a really bloody bad time!"

"Yes, it is," said a familiar smooth voice.

They stopped so suddenly Francis nearly knocked Arthur over. Kiku stood in front of them, in the no-man's land between light and shadow, a gun in his hand.

"K-Kiku?" Arthur whispered. Francis noted that the Brit sounded a bit strangled.

"Yes, Arthur," said the Japanese man. The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm afraid that you dropped in at a bad time."

They panted, their breaths echoing in the empty halls. Francis was horribly out of shape; there was a horrible empty coldness in his chest. Arthur just seemed to be angry.

Kiku raised the gun until the barrel was pointed towards them. "I'm afraid I cannot let allow you to leave here after breaking in like this. And I'm afraid I cannot allow you to leave with _him_." His dark brown eyes flickered over to Francis.

The Frenchman swallowed. _That's the second time someone has given me that look and referred to me by that title. _Him._ What is going on here?_

Arthur laughed. "You think you can stop me? Oh, Kiku. Don't make fun of me."

Kiku shook his head slowly. "I'm not, Arthur. I am just following orders."

A brief pause. Arthur scoffed slightly. "Then I'm very sorry about this, old friend."

His arm whipped into action again, knocking the gun out of Kiku's hand, while his fingers gripped the Japanese man's wrist tightly and bent it back severely. Francis cringed at the sharp crack, while Kiku only looked on Arthur with unreadable eyes.

The Brit smirked. "To make it all the more real, Kiku," he said simply, and then looked at Francis, who had a confused look on his face.

"Come on, frog," Arthur snapped. "I don't want to have to beat up any more people. It really takes a toll on you if you do it too much."

And like he did on that day in Antonio's apartment, Francis followed Arthur out the door.

xx

They were back again on the lonely highway. A glance at the dashboard clock told Francis it was half past midnight. He was dead tired, and he was still suffering from a splitting migraine, but thoughts were running inside his head. Too many of them, crashing and clamoring, overflowing in his brain. The images were too loud and demanding for Francis to be able to sleep.

_Focus._ He told himself that over and over. It wasn't working. Francis had never had that gift, to concentrate long on one thing. If only it was his art—then he could work on it for hours and not notice the time flying by.

But Arthur… Francis wondered how the Brit always seemed to show up whenever Francis needed him. The day at Antonio's apartment—how did Arthur know to come for him? Francis remembered Arthur saying he had to leave. Leave, why? And why take Francis with him? Why the danger? Why was Francis in danger in the first place? He rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt like he was putting together a puzzle without a guide picture. He didn't even feel like he had all the pieces. Something was missing. It didn't help that his migraine was getting worse and worse.

And on top of all that, Francis couldn't ignore his growing attraction for Arthur. He could feel it in his memories, both the ones from before the incident at Antonio's and the ones after. Especially the ones after. But the before… Francis closed his eyes and remembered how they fought—squabbles about whether Francis could paint his roommate; about who would cook dinner that night; about the small sticky notes that Francis decorated their apartment with every day; about the mess in the room that doubled as Francis's studio and bedroom; about their beverage of choice—Arthur hated coffee and drank tea, Francis only drank coffee and ignored tea to spite Arthur. The name-calling. Francis smiled to himself. For Arthur, it was a variety of names: "lapin," "cheri," and Francis's favorite, "sourcils." Arthur often called Francis more offending terms, "frog" being one of the more polite ones.

And then the past couple days. Arthur, in leather jacket and skinny jeans with a gun, piercing green stare and smooth voice. Arthur with a smile so beautiful it hurt, laughing with his old friend about the old days. The night at Mathias's pub, when the shooting started and Arthur threw himself over Francis to protect him. Risking his life. Bleeding like hell in the backseat of the SUV just so Francis would be safe.

The memories made Francis's chest ache faintly. He wished Arthur wouldn't treat him so coldly. He wished there was none of… the gun and threatening stuff to get in the way. He felt that it only caused everyone more pain, Arthur especially. So what if he was a romantic? He needed it. If there was anything he fully believed in, it was love.

"Francis, weren't you going to say something in the hallway?" Arthur's tired but sharp voice cut into the Frenchman's thoughts.

Francis didn't say anything for a moment. "Arthur," he managed. "I think…"

"Yes?"

A pause. The wind howled as the car sped along on the road.

Arthur shifted slightly in his seat. "Francis?"

Francis shook his head quickly. "Never mind." He wasn't willing to admit to Arthur anything that he'd been thinking.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah… I forgot what I was going to say."

"All right then."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Wow. I am no good at writing action scenes. On the upside, I finally broke my thousand-word-count streak :D

Chapter 1 = 1,000 or so words  
>Chapter 2 = 2,000 or so words<br>Chapter 3 = 3,000 or so words  
>Chapter 4 = 4,000 or so words<br>Chapter 5 = 5,000 or so words  
><strong>Chapter 6 = 3,000 or so words :D<strong>

*Krav Maga is a type of martial art developed for the Israeli military/special forces. It involves a lot of hitting with the fists and lots of targeting vital points. Basically, it's "knock out your opponent as fast as you can."

Good fun. ~


	7. rendezvous

**7. rendez-vous**

"I still don't understand why people drink that rubbish," said Arthur, eyeing Francis's coffee warily.

"It wakes them up, _lapin_," said Francis. He ripped open another packet of sugar and dumped the white powder into his mug.

Arthur scoffed. "Tea does that just as well," he remarked.

"Coffee tastes better," Francis argued.

"You mean bitter and nasty?" Arthur snorted. "No, thank you."

The morning sunlight flooded the window next to them. They had settled into a diner for breakfast, a rather worn-down and sullied diner. The seats and tables felt grimy under Francis's touch, so much that his skin crawled, but he made do. They were eating food that probably had seen better places and been cooked in too much oil, and Francis hadn't eaten much of it.

"Why aren't you eating?" Arthur asked him, propping his chin up in his hands. Francis had to keep himself from grinning; the Brit was so cute when he was concerned, even if a slight edge of annoyance in his green eyes ruined it a bit.

"I'm, ah, not really fond of this kind of food," he said, scratching his beard absently. "I'd much rather have a baguette… with cheese…"

"We're not exactly in a position to just _stroll_ into a store and buy some bagets and cheese." Arthur's voice ruined the word 'baguette,' and Francis had to laugh at the Brit.

"Your French accent is _très atroce,_" Francis teased him.

"Shut it, frog."

A phone vibrated suddenly, and Arthur reached into his pocket to pull out his mobile. His green eyes scanned the display briefly and he cursed.

Francis studied his traveling companion. "What is it?"

Arthur didn't seem to hear him and only kept muttering. "Nasty little wanker… what sort of bloody idiot would ever think of this?"

The Frenchman was confused. "What is it?" he repeated, with more caution in his voice than before.

Arthur sighed and put his phone back into his pocket. "Nothing. But we might have to go shopping today."

Francis chuckled. "You? Shopping?"

"We're _going_."

And sure enough, twenty minutes later, they were standing in a drugstore, looking at shelves filled with boxes.

"What? Hair dye?" Francis widened his eyes. "No. No, no, no, no, no… No! Just no!"

"Might I care to remind you, Francis, that _you_ are a _wanted man_," Arthur dropped his voice so low that Francis strained to hear him. "You can't keep walking around looking like that—"

"Like what?" Francis grinned slightly.

"Like a fucking prat, that's what!" Arthur snapped. "And furthermore, that face"—he waved a finger in a circle around Francis's head—"is a criminal's face. You're too recognizable, you need to blend."

"But I like my face the way it is," Francis said. "You wound me, _mon lapin._"

Arthur rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "I wasn't trying to insult your face, but if you want to walk into a highly public area and get spotted immediately by security guards and get arrested, that's fine with me."

His green eyes bored into Francis. "I'm not sure you want to be held prisoner again."

Shivers ran down Francis's back, as the events of last night came back to him—hard metal chair, bright light shining in his eyes, hands and wrists sore from duct tape. _No, I definitely don't want to go through that again._

Francis exhaled. "So what will it be?"

The Brit held up a box. "This one."

Francis tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach and took the box.

"There's a good little frog," said Arthur, and patted him on the back.

xx

Francis Bonnefoy no longer recognized himself.

Arthur had forced him to dye his blond locks a dark brown and pull it back into a ponytail. Then he'd shaved the stubble off his jaw and put on different clothes, clothes that had come from a cheap knock-off place, clothes that Francis couldn't help but turn his nose up at. He was an artist. He wore only the best clothes of the best quality. He felt awkward in the new clothes. Granted, they looked nice, and even Arthur nodded his approval as Francis walked out of the bathroom of the cheap motel room that Arthur had gotten for the night.

But he didn't feel like himself.

Arthur didn't seem to notice. He had only stretched, and told Francis to "get some rest and take a shower."

Francis didn't argue with him. He went and took a shower, careful to keep his newly-dyed hair away from the hot water, cursing himself all along for not dying his hair after the shower. No use now. The job was done, and his hair felt odd in his fingers. Not bad. Just odd. It was still soft and smooth like hair should be, but the dark color bothered him. So did his jaw line. He missed the small beard on his chin, it made him feel more mature and in control. Too bad that was gone now. His life had been out of control the moment he'd met Arthur Kirkland in that lonely little supermarket in Manhattan.

Not that it was a bad thing.

He caught sight of himself in the foggy mirror as he stepped out of the shower. Stretching out one hand, wiped the steam off the glass. A stranger blinked back in the yellowish light, blue eyes filled with mingling shock and disbelief.

_I don't even know who I am anymore_, Francis realized suddenly. Despite his memory returning, the images only prompted more questions. What did Gilbert want from him that day in Antonio's apartment? How had Arthur known to come for him that day?

And how had Francis done what he did?

Kill Gilbert Beilschmidt, a friend he'd known for all of high school?

The death still cut into him painfully, a sharp, bitter taste of regret and grief on his tongue. Francis couldn't wrap his mind around it, the fact that Gilbert was _gone_. Gone, and never coming back.

He would never again see Gilbert's wicked red eyes glimmering with mischief. Nor would the Prussian boy laugh at Antonio's blunders or proclaim himself awesome or put a V behind their heads again in pictures. He would never think of pranks or tease his brother or care for his pet canary or beat both his friend's asses at video games again.

He was dead.

Dead by Francis's own hands.

The space behind Francis's eyes began to tickle, and his throat and chest felt heavy and tight. He stumbled out of the bathroom, wanting to only curl up in his bed, and collapsed on the mattress closest to him, which had an odd lump lying on top of it. He landed uncomfortably on that lump, but the tears were already beginning to tremble and fall down his face.

"Bloody git! Get off me!" Arthur said grumpily.

Francis didn't move or respond.

"I said get off!"

Silence.

Arthur sat up and shifted so that he wasn't wedged uncomfortably under Francis's body. "Francis?" he whispered, his voice carrying an edge of concern. "Are you okay?"

"_Non… non… il est mort,_" Francis choked out. "_Je ne peux pas… ne peux pas…"_

"Shhh… It's okay… it's okay…" Arthur's slim hands rested on Francis's back, and the Brit slid down so that he and Francis were lying face to face. "It's okay."

Francis cried silently, the first time he'd done so since his mother's death all those years ago, back when he was young and innocent and carefree. He felt himself give in to Arthur, who wrapped his arms around Francis and let him cry.

It was very warm and comfortable. Francis would have been content to stay there forever, in Arthur's arms, even as he stopped crying.

Arthur put his hands on Francis's shoulders. "Are you better now?" he asked in a low voice.

Francis nodded, eyes heavy with sleep and loneliness.

Arthur patted Francis's shoulder briefly and made to get up from the sheets, but Francis's hand reached out to grab his shirt. The Brit sat down obediently (albeit with a sigh) and lowered himself onto the bed again, propping his head up on an elbow.

"What is it?" he asked, and Francis answered.

He pulled Arthur's face to his and kissed him.

Needless to say, it wasn't a very good kiss. Their teeth clacked jarringly and their lips smushed together uncomfortably, but Francis liked it. The Brit tasted vaguely like lemons, sweet and tangy, and somehow it was new but comforting to Francis. It sent warm shivers of excitement into his chest, and warmth into his face and hands. He needed the Brit to be there, and have his hands on his body, and have those green eyes look into his.

But then Arthur pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he murmured hoarsely. He moved his head back, too far for Francis to reach up and pull him back down to him. "I can't."

And he got up and left Francis there, lying in bed, drifting off into sleep while the Brit pulled the covers over him.

How he dreamt of those green eyes.

xx

The next day, Francis had to get up early. Arthur was already up, grumbling about how no one had hot tea at this hour. He was pacing the room nervously, muttering a stream of curses. It didn't seem as if he remembered anything from last night. Or if he did, then he didn't show it.

Francis wasn't feeling any better. The kiss from last night frustrated him, and he was annoyed at himself for moving too fast. He brushed his fingers over his lips. What an idiot he was. Kissing Arthur, no matter how tempting it was, and how nice it felt, was not a good idea, especially since they were on the run. _And_, Francis thought with slight disgust, _I'm now a brunette._

His hair still weirded him out.

It didn't help that along with his new hair and his clean-shaven face, he had another horrible nightmare, the exact same on as the night in the pub. Lying on a cold, metal bed and seeing a knife, slowly being lowered towards his chest and feeling the panic inside him—

"What's the matter with you?" Arthur snapped. "Get dressed already! We've got a Starbucks to go to!"

Francis blinked. "You? Starbucks?"

But they did indeed walk into a Starbucks and Arthur did buy a coffee—an espresso, black—and drank it.

"Eugh… nasty stuff, that is," he said, sputtering.

Francis, who had gotten a chai latte, chuckled. "If you get a plain black espresso, of course it will taste nasty, _sourcils_."

"Don't call me that!" Arthur snapped. His green eyes flicked around the shop furtively. "All right. Time to get down to business."

He leaned back in his chair and scooted back a couple inches. Then he extended his arm over the back of his chair and dug his hand into the dirt of the potted plant behind him.

"Um," Francis stammered, watching Arthur look like an idiot. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Shush. Let me focus for a second." The Brit frowned in concentration. "It's got to be in here… Ah, there we go."

He pulled out two bright green plastic cards, with white writing and colorful pictures on them. Francis didn't get a very good look at them because Arthur stuffed them into his pocket very quickly.

"Come on," Arthur said, standing up suddenly, espresso in hand. "We've got a park to visit."

"A park?" asked Francis.

Arthur scoffed. "It wasn't my idea."

xx

"Kings' Island?" Francis blinked up at the sign. The sun was obnoxiously bright today, and he squinted in the light. The sky was bright blue with no trace of cloud in sight. "What is this place?"

"It's an amusement park," Arthur said. He had taken off his jacket from before in the coffee shop, revealing a faded gray t-shirt with acid stains near the bottom and the Union Jack on its front. His skinny jeans were black and decorated with chains.

_Punk. _Francis cringed, and tried to ignore it. _Think of it this way, _he told himself. _At least he's not wearing eyeliner._ "An… amusement park."

Arthur shrugged. "I wasn't the one who thought of it."

"Who was?" Francis asked curiously.

"You'll see."

They walked through a sheltered area with a series of lanes inside. Next to each lane was a person checking tickets. Arthur pulled out the bright green cards from Starbucks earlier and handed them to the woman.

She scanned them and gave them back to the Brit. "Enjoy Kings' Island," she said dully, like a rehearsed line done too many times.

"Thank you," said Arthur, smiling at her. Francis swallowed—hard—as the Brit slid the cards into his back pocket

"Why did you smile at her?" Francis asked him once they'd gotten out of earshot of the woman.

"She looked like she needed one. That's all."

"You really are a kind person, are you?" Francis grinned at Arthur, who only scoffed.

"Shut up, frog. You don't know what you're talking about."

Francis followed him out of the shelter, where a street of shops and restaurants was built surrounding a large pool of water. The pool had several fountains spraying water and at the far end was a reminder of home—_le Tour Eiffel_. Francis's heart skipped a beat, until he realized it wasn't the real thing.

"_Le Tour Eiffel,_" he said vaguely. "_C'est trop petit…_"

"Of course, it's too small," Arthur said. "It's a replica. Bugger it, where are they?" He checked the display of his mobile again. "Oh, right. They're going to meet us by The Beast."

"The Beast?"

"It's a roller coaster," Arthur said briskly. "Let's go."

Francis felt very awkward, walking through the park with Arthur. The Brit wasn't the only one dressed in skinny jeans and chains, but there weren't that many people around. _Maybe it was because it was late August_, Francis thought. _All the kids should be in school by now._ It was like just the two of them, walking through streets of games and stores and rides. It was almost like a date.

Francis nearly laughed at that thought. Now wasn't the time to think about a date, however much Francis wanted to. Not when every other day the pair of them were being shot at. It was beginning to feel vaguely normal to Francis, he'd seen the black hole of a barrel too many times.

"Oyyyyy! Wotcha, Arthur!"

Francis looked up to see two peculiar-looking people standing by a sign that featured claws and proclaimed 'THE BEAST' in bold letters.

The first one, the man who was yelling for the Brit, was reasonably tall, with bright green eyes and brown hair slicked back. A curl of hair at the crown of his head stood up, curling slightly and defying gravity. He was handsome in a rough, outdoorsy kind of way, with thick eyebrows like Arthur's, a bandage on his slightly crooked nose, and a careless smile. He had a series of scars running down the length of his arms and his dark T-shirt read 'TASMANIAN DEVIL.'

The other person, a girl with brown hair pulled into a side ponytail was shorter than her male companion, and wore a slightly exasperated look. She had eyebrows rather like Arthur's too, but with glittering amber eyes that made Francis's hands itch for a paintbrush and canvas. Her arms were crossed and she was wearing shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs. Francis restrained himself from whistling. _Merde._

Arthur didn't seem to care about the girl at all. He made a beeline for the man and grabbed his collar. "Bloody git," he hissed, green eyes flashing. "Why the bloody hell would you have us meeting a highly bloody public place where _he_"—Arthur jerked his head towards Francis—"could be fucking _arrested_—"

"Calm down, Arthur!" said the brunet man, and this time Francis could hear an Australian accent. "He looks completely different without that beard and hair so she'll be apples!" The man grinned.

Arthur looked at him funny. "_She'll be apples?_"

"It means it'll be _okay_, you uptight tea-lover," said the brunet.

Arthur sighed.

"Francis, this is Dylan Wellington," Arthur said, gesturing to Dylan. "Dylan, Francis."

"It's nice to finally meet you," said Dylan, shaking Francis's hand.

"Finally?" Francis asked, and Dylan laughed at Francis's confused look.

"Yes. I've heard quite a bit about you." He winked. "This is Selena, my math genius of a sister."

"But I prefer painting," she added in her feminine clear voice.

"Really? I paint, too," said Francis, smiling. He couldn't help it, she was really very pretty.

"Selena is only nineteen," bragged Dylan. "But she's already graduated college. Our little genius."

"Shut up," said Selena.

"I would agree," said Arthur. "When are you going to give it to me?"

"Oh, this?" Dylan pulled out a silver lighter, and Francis made a face. _What would Arthur do with a lighter?_

"Yes," said Arthur, starting to look slightly cranky. "That."

"Well… I'll only give it to you if you agree to spend the whole day here with Selena and me. And Francis, of course." Dylan grinned wickedly.

"You've got to be kidding." Arthur crossed his arms. "I don't have the time for this."

"And I didn't waste over a hundred dollars paying for all of our tickets to come here," said Dylan. "Besides, no day of fun here, no lighter." He wiggled it in front of Arthur's face.

Arthur sighed. "Oh, fine. Whatever you say."

Dylan pumped his fist. "YEAH! Okay, on to The Beast!"

"Can't we just go on that tall one over there"—Arthur pointed to a _very_ tall red-and-yellow coaster nearby—"and be done with it?"

"No!" The Australian looked horrified. "Are yo trying to get out this wonderful day with us? Besides, we can't just straight-up ride Diamondback, we'd all get heart attacks on the first drop and die."

Arthur scoffed. "I've had plenty more scares than going down a hill of a roller coaster."

They walked in. There were hardly any people in line, so it was barely any time before Francis was seated in the car next to Dylan, who was grinning madly.

"This is gonna be great," he said, excitement shining in his green eyes.

Francis wasn't so sure about that. The 45-degree ride up the hill took forever, and he gave in to temptation to look down. The sudden distance to the ground made his heart leap in terror. The trees suddenly didn't seem so tall—and that wasn't a good thing. He suddenly wished his feet were back on solid dirt.

"Ever been on a roller coaster before?" Dylan asked as the speakers on either side of the track played menacing music.

"_N-non_," Francis stammered, reverting back to French. "_J-j-je n'ai jamais fait…_"

"Ah, don't worry, it'll be great." Dylan clapped him on the back as the cars slowed at the top. "Good luck, mate!"

They began to go over, and Francis gripped the bars in front of him so hard that his knuckles turned white. He could see the bottom of the ride, and as the ground rushed up towards him, he found himself screaming in part-terror and part-glee. The coaster went up and down and tilted sideways and roared through dark tunnels, cars bumping and shaking through the entire time, throwing Francis side to side in his seat.

"AHHHHHHHH!" Francis screamed. "HOW LONG IS THIS THING?"

"FIVE MINUTES, MATE!" Dylan yelled back, hands thrown up in the air, evidently having the time of his life.

And sure enough, five minutes later, Francis was getting off, giddy off the adrenaline that going 65 miles per hour on a rickety wood coaster brought.

"_Dieu_," Francis said, laughing. "That was great!"

"Knew you'd come on board, mate," said Dylan said, throwing an arm around the Frenchman.

"Tchh, that was nothing," Selena said, rolling her eyes. "Diamondback is _way_ scarier than that."

Dylan's green eyes carried a sudden mischievous glint. "Challenge. Accepted."

And so Francis found himself again leaning back and going up a lift hill, this time seated next to Selena, who seemed to be lounging casually in her seat, yawning like she was only in a reclining chair, instead of fifty feet off the ground.

Then Francis realized something. He reached for his seatbelt—no easy feat since lap bar was secured rather tightly—and realized there was none.

Diamondback didn't have seatbelts.

"Selena," he said in a shaky voice. "Is this ride even safe?"

"You talking about the seatbelts? Well, they don't have them here and—oh, we're going down," said Selena.

Francis had about two seconds to think "Oh shit, really?" when he realized suddenly he was facing the ground.

"OOOOOOHHHHHH MYYYYYY GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDD!" flew out of his mouth as the ground rushed up at him faster than he could imagine. He could literally feel himself rising out of his seat, if not for the lap bar restraining him. Everything was a blur, and his hands were gripping the handles so tightly he thought his hand would cramp into that position forever.

And then, a minute later, he stumbled out of his seat, laughing with giddiness.

"Dieu, that was amazing!" he said to Dylan, who laughed back.

"Great. You've turned Francis into an adrenaline junkie," Arthur muttered.

"No matter," said Dylan, grinning. "I think we can fit in Backlot Stunt Coaster before we head to eat lunch, all right?"

"Sure," said Francis. He gave a very subtle smile to Selena, who turned a pinkish color and looked away quickly.

He didn't notice Arthur behind him, spitting at the ground angrily as they went.

xx

"We seriously have to eat this?" Francis wrinkled his nose at the fried food in front of him.

"It's the only food they have here," said Selena matter-of-factly next to him. Francis smiled. He couldn't help it. She was pretty. He had a weakness for pretty.

"It looks like the sort of rubbish Alfred would eat," Arthur grumbled. His mood had soured considerably since their ride on Diamondback. Francis found it rather confusing, how Arthur's normally sarcastic "happy" mood had become so angry. _Mood swings, perhaps._

"I would prefer some barbequed kangaroos myself," said Dylan, munching on French fries, "but they don't have those up here in America."

Everyone gave him a funny look.

"What? Kangaroo is really good."

Francis shrugged and took a bite of French fries. Selena took some from his carton too, and Francis smiled. She was a pretty thing. It was too bad that he was brunet right now. Then again, so was she. But Francis rather missed his blond hair…

"So, guys, what's the plan for after lunch?" Dylan asked the group of them.

Arthur grumbled something again, but Francis wasn't paying attention. It was incredibly hot outside, and even though they were eating in a shaded area, everyone was sweating buckets. Selena wiped the sweat off her forehead and loosened her ponytail, brushing her hair out again with her fingers and tying it back up with its flower ornament… _Dieu, _she was pretty, and Francis wondered how he could get away from Arthur and Dylan to maybe give her a kiss… He wanted to. She was a piece of work, with soft brown hair and sun-kissed skin and amber eyes and lips…

"Francis! Earth to Francis!" Dylan waved a hand in front of his face. "You okay?"

"Oh, right." Francis blinked. "What's the plan?"

Dylan rattled off a list of random roller coasters, but Francis didn't hear him. His eyes had darted back towards Selena, who stuck another fry in her mouth.

"Got it?"

Francis looked up; Dylan had stopped talking. The Frenchman smiled. "Of course."

"Let's go, then," said Selena.

And so their afternoon was spent in the park, half waiting in line, half walking around, and one percent riding the rest of the thrill rides. Over the course of four to five hours Francis was: hurtled through the air at dizzying heights _all while facing the ground_, launched from 0 to 54 miles per hour _in the dark_, dropped 26 stories _in free fall_, along with going through more loop-de-loops than he could count.

It was a good day for all of them. Except it was extremely hot.

That is why they found themselves hours later, sitting on the brick curb under the trees, sweating.

"It's so hot!" Dylan groaned. "I mean, it's hot in the Outback, but not like this!"

"Too hot," Arthur agreed, nursing his precious cold slushie. He took a loud slurp from it, apparently not being a gentleman anymore.

"We could go to the water park," Francis suggested.

"No, we don't have swimsuits." Dylan fanned himself with the map. "I mean, we could buy them, but…"

"You guys are all idiots," said Selena. She jabbed her finger on the map. "_Obviously_ we go on a water ride, of course."

Dylan's head snapped up. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed. "That's perfectly—yes! Brilliant!"

"'Congo Falls,'" Francis read over Selena's shoulder.

"Ahhh, right." Dylan nodded wisely. "You get completely soaked on that one."

"Then let's go on it. I brought a change of clothes for us anyway," Arthur said sharply, and he stood up suddenly and walked off towards the ride.

"What's with him?" Dylan asked Francis.

The Frenchman shrugged.

xx

Francis wasn't entirely sure about it. Even pulling up, the riders were completely drenched, and as they got off, Francis could see that the seats were already glistening with droplets.

"It's so wet," he said.

"Of course it is," Selena sighed. "It's a water ride. Hurry up and get on." And Francis was nearly shoved in—she was surprisingly strong—and forced down into the wet black seats. He cringed; the water had begun to soak through the seat of his pants.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked Selena. "These clothes—"

"—will dry out," she finished for him. "Stop being a wuss."

And the car jerked forward in the falls. They were splashed in a ginormous (and refreshing) wave of cold water—and then sprayed again with more water. For good measure.

"I DON'T FEEL HOT ANYMORE!" Dylan yelled, sitting up slightly and spreading his arms wide and tilting his face to the sun.

Selena punched him in the ribs, causing him to double over, and Francis and Arthur to laugh. Then they realized that they were both laughing at the same thing and stopped laughing.

Droplets of water stained their path as they walked, away from the ride and out onto the street.

"Wasn't that great?" Dylan asked Francis.

Francis smiled. "Yeah, I feel a lot better." He turned to Selena. "Thank you," he told her with a brilliant smile.

"What're you thanking me for?" Selena said.

"You idea," said Francis, shrugging.

"True."

"Francis. Shirt." Arthur held out a dry shirt towards the Frenchman, who accepted it gratefully. He turned to give his wet shirt back to Arthur, and froze.

Arthur had his back turned to Francis. He wasn't wearing a shirt, which revealed a design of a lion on one side of his back, leaping from his hip and extending its claws up onto his shoulder blade. Its fur was stained a golden brown, its magnificent mane even darker, and its amber eyes blazed on Arthur's ribs. A white ribbon wound around the lion's body, marked with the words _Dieu et mon droit._

"_God and my right_," Francis whispered, translating the words from his native French.

"What did you say?" Arthur turned towards him, green eyes flashing.

"Uh… nothing," Francis said quickly. "Shirt."

Arthur took the shirt and stuffed it into a bag that Francis hadn't noticed before. It was suddenly quiet, Francis realized, and he saw that Dylan and Selena were standing in line for a food stand for their dinner. It was just Arthur and Francis.

Arthur was still stuffing things into the bag like he had a personal vendetta against wet shirts, but Francis suspected it was more than that.

It wasn't like Arthur was going to tell him.

xx

The sun had long since set on Kings' Island, and there were_ still_ people hanging around. Dylan had insisted on going on more rides—"The Beast is incredible in the dark! It was awesome when Jamie and I went last time we were here!" So they'd stayed in the park after the sunset.

Arthur didn't give a damn. He just wanted to go home. Or rather, he wanted to get the fla—_lighter_ and go home.

Instead, he was sitting on a bench with only his bag for company, watching Francis flirt with Selena thirty feet away from him while Dylan went to get ice cream.

Arthur wasn't in the mood for ice cream. He hadn't lowered his defenses at all, and felt as paranoid as ever. It didn't help that Francis's flirting with Selena made his stomach (full of greasy American food) churn horribly. That man hit on every girl on sight, the Brit thought sickeningly. Hell, that man would flirt with anything that walked on two legs and talked. Arthur remembered, when they went to the bars back in New York, how Francis would go to great lengths to bring a girl back to their—_his —_apartment. This would leave Arthur to have to crash at Kiku's apartment—he was always welcome there, but he still preferred his own place.

That was back when he worked for Gemini.

Arthur sighed. _Memories. No need to dwell on them._

"Hey." Dylan held out a cone with a huge mound of chocolate ice cream. "Thinking deep thoughts?"

The Brit took the ice cream. "Something like that."

"What're you thinking about?" The Australian leaned back on the bench, licking his ice cream greedily.

"Nothing much."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

There was a silence while they ate their ice cream. Fireworks began going off, the whine and crack sending shivers down Arthur's back. They always reminded Arthur of the one mission in Hong Kong that had went horribly wrong. Horribly wrong.

_Stop thinking in the past, Arthur._

His eyes dropped away from the sky and rested on Francis and Selena, their faces lit by the brilliant pyrotechnic display. Even the sight made it feel like stones had been dropped in his chest.

"You like him, don't you?" Dylan's voice cut into the silence. "Francis?"

"What, him?" Arthur snorted. "No, I think he's a pretentious French idiot—"

"Pork pies." Dylan said. "Don't lie to me, Arthur. You _do_ like him."

Arthur was silent before he spoke. "How's Jamie? I haven't heard from him in a while—"

"Don't change the subject."

The Brit's expression hardened. "Will you just give the bloody lighter to me already?"

A slight pause. "I don't think now is the right time."

"What do you mean by that?" Arthur snapped, suddenly cranky—or perhaps he'd already been cranky. He certainly hadn't felt happy today. "You're the one that arranged to meet here!"

"No," Dylan said in an insistent low voice. "Look. Nine o'clock."

Arthur's green eyes slid to his left. He swore.

"_Alfred and Bella."_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note~<strong>

Cheers to another chapter! Turned out a bit longer than I expected. I'm not sure why they went to an amusement park… I just wanted them to, Haha. And they're technically in the area, so why not? And I love Kings' Island. I love that place so much.

If you haven't noticed already, Dylan is Australia and Selena is Wy. Jamie (another brother) is New Zealand. *heart*

Why does Arthur taste like lemons? Earl Grey. With Lemon. /The Da Vinci Code reference

And also, I wasn't exactly a fan of France x Wy, but now they're my new fave crack pairing. And Francis is allowed to have his flings, yes? :D Although we all know that he'll go back to Arthur. /shot

**Notes about Kings' Island: **Kings' Island is located in Mason, Ohio in the Midwestern United States. All the rides are real and I've provided an accurate-as-possible description of them in the story.  
>+ <strong>The Beast<strong> is the world's longest wooden roller coaster, at 7400 feet (approx. 2255 meters) and therefore takes 5 minutes per ride. They actually do play 'scary' music on the first lift hill. It's kind of lame.  
>+ <strong>Diamondback<strong> is the fastest and tallest roller coaster at Kings' Island, with the first drop at 230 feet (approx. 70 meters) and reaches speeds of up to 80 miles per hour (128 km an hour). And no, it really does not have seatbelts. It's really great. :D  
>+ <strong>Firehawk<strong> (the coaster that goes face-down) loads in a sitting position, then leans you back so you're facing the sky. Then when you go over the lift hill, it flips you around so you are _facing the ground_ at a maximum height of 115 feet (35 m) in the air. Probably the awesomest ride at Kings' Island, IMO.  
>+ <strong>Flight of Fear<strong> launches you from 0 to 54 miles per hour (86 km per hour) in four seconds. _In the dark._  
>+ <strong>Drop Tower<strong> drops you 26 stories (315 ft / 96 meters) in near-free-fall. Obviously they catch you at the end, haha.  
>+ <strong>Congo Falls <strong>is a really mild ride compared to the others, but it _does _get you completely soaked. /excuse for Arthur to take off his shirt and show off smexy tattoo

**Kings' Island, I miss you so much *heart***


	8. deal

**8. deal**

"There's something wrong." Selena spoke suddenly, and her eyes darted back towards Arthur and Dylan. They both had ice creams in their hands and solemn expressions on their faces.

Francis looked at Selena oddly. Her face was illuminated in shades of blue and red and yellow—the same colors of the fireworks that burst in the sky, turning the amber flecks in her eyes into gold. It was amazing, and Francis wished that he had a canvas and paints so he could paint it because it was just _beautiful_, but no. A sudden pinch jerked him back, and he blinked to see Selena's intense glare aimed at him.

"In case you didn't _hear me,_" the girl snarled, "something is _wrong."_

"What? In an amusement park?" Francis's expression twisted into a confused look. "No way."

"No. They're about the most paranoid people in the world. There's something wrong," she insisted. Francis looked at Selena funnily; he couldn't imagine Dylan being paranoid. The Australian was too carefree to be like Arthur.

"Uh… all right then," he made out. "Let's go back to where they are."

They walked through the semi-darkness (the fireworks were still going on above their heads), making their way through the still-crowded park and found Arthur and Dylan tossing their ice creams in a trash can.

"That is a waste of good ice cream," remarked Selena. "Especially ones that were worth almost five bucks."

"I know, right? But we've got a crisis here, so no dice." Dylan reached inside another bag that Francis hadn't noticed before and pulled out a button-down shirt. He slid it on.

Arthur, at the same time, pulled on a ski cap, leaving only a fringe of blond hair sticking out on his forehead. Francis tried not to laugh; it was really very cute.

"What's with you?" Arthur glared at the Frenchman, and Francis calmed himself.

"Nothing… nothing," he said quickly.

"What's the crisis? And why are we changing into disguises?" Selena pulled out her hair tie, looking at them suspiciously.

"Gemini is here," Dylan said.

His little sister froze and gave him a "are you kidding?" look. "No, no way."

"Way." Arthur sniffed slightly and jerked his head over at a couple shrouded in the darkness. Francis squinted slightly and made out a tall man with straight, messy hair, save for a strand that defied gravity and stood up straight. The woman next to him was slim with shoulder-length wavy hair.

"What? No way," Francis exclaimed. "No way."

"Yes, Alfred and Bella are here," said Arthur, annoyed. "Which means," he went on, turning to glare at Dylan, "you ought to give me the lighter. _Now._"

"No, I really prolly shouldn't," said Dylan. "They could catch up to you, Artie."

"They're not," Arthur said, his voice hard. "They're here for Francis. And I'm not gonna let them take him."

Dylan looked at him with a knowing glance that Francis couldn't place. "All right. Here's the plan."

And somehow Francis found himself in the backseat of a green sedan, with Selena at the wheel, her hands gripping it way too tightly—about as tightly as Francis had gripped the lap bar on the roller coasters. Francis couldn't see too well her expression, as she was facing the road, but he could judge from the rearview mirror that she was seriously _stressed_.

"Stupid British spy, stupid big brother, stupid human wea—fuck!" Selena swerved suddenly, and Francis gripped the overhead handle for fear of injury. The way the girl was driving, they would get into a car accident for sure. They kept weaving in and out of lanes, skidding on the edge, and turning at random spots. She even turned on the highway only to get off one stop later.

"Selena," he said hoarsely. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm perfect, believe me." Selena screeched to a stop at an intersection, and Francis lurched forward, his face making contact with the back of Selena's headrest. "Just perfect."

"I can tell," Francis said, muffled against the leather. He pried himself off the back of the drivers' seat and coughed slightly. "What exactly are you doing? And where's Arthur and Dylan?"

"Arthur and Dylan are off on their own; we'll catch up with them later," Selena said through clenched teeth. "And in case you _haven't noticed_, we're being tailed. And all this time I've been driving like an idiot just so they'll mess up and stop tailing us."

"Alfred and Bella?" Francis stole a glance backwards. "Why can't you just speed away or something?"

"_That_ would land us on the six o'clock news, which is about the last thing me, Arthur, and Dylan need. Throw in _you_, a wanted man in Greater New York and surrounding areas, and we've got a mess that'll have Gemini crawling all over us faster than you can say 'fuck off.' Yeah, no thank you." Selena turned left from the right-turn lane.

"What the hell?" Francis muttered as cars around them honked like crazy. Only one car followed them, causing more obnoxious honks around them. The Frenchman looked behind him, and inside the SUV he could see a woman with wavy blond hair and gritted teeth.

Selena scoffed, a smirk on her pretty face. "_Amateurs_."

"Now what?" Francis said, slightly anxious. "We know they're following us, what are we going to do?"

"Simple. Keep driving like an idiot till they mess up. It won't be long… they're amateurs." Francis thought that the nineteen-year-old girl sounded awfully cocky, but he didn't dare argue.

"Are you sure about this? I mean, what if we get into a crash?" Francis gulped.

"Puh-_leeze._" Selena rolled her eyes in the mirror. "I've been driving since I was ten years old. I know what I'm doing."

"In the dark? In _this _town?"

"I _live_ here, Francis," Selena said darkly. "I know these streets like the back of my hand."

It was about a half hour of Francis looking over his shoulder and _still_ seeing a SUV behind them that Selena lost some of her cockiness and wore a slightly more worried expression instead.

"God, these guys never give up, do they? It's like they didn't go through training at all…" Selena gritted her teeth.

"What'll we do now?" Francis asked anxiously.

"Luckily for _us_," Selena said, "I'm a helluva lot smarter than the two of them combined."

She swerved into a deserted parking lot, and Alfred and Bella followed. Francis watched as she shifted the gear into neutral and turned around to look at him.

"Francis," she said, and instantly his heart began racing—not because she was pretty, but because he was dreading what she was going to say next.

"Take this," she said, "and good luck."

xx

Francis crawled out of the car. He was clearly nervous—sweat dripping down his forehead, eyes wide and scared, knees ready to buckle at any moment. He was sure that the two trained professionals—or maybe not so professional as Selena had said—could see that he was vulnerable. Sort of a good thing, since it appeared that way. Sort of a bad thing, since it really _was _that way.

_How did I let her talk me into this?_ he thought. _Damn my weakness for pretty girls… _The shaking in his hands were getting worse and worse every second. It was like the metal around his wrist was getting heavier with each step towards the SUV with the American inside. _I'm not cut out for this, dammit._

And if he thought the watch on his wrist was bad enough, the roll of coins—or so they looked—in his hand was definitely worse. He felt like they would explode at any second, tucked inside his fist. It was a very real possibility in this world of spies and guns and black ops corporations, _dieu_, he wanted _out _on all of it—

The passenger door to the SUV opened, and a tall man in a bomber jacket and glasses stepped out. Francis summoned all of his courage—which wasn't much—and kept walking.

"That's right, Francis," Alfred F. Jones said with a cheerful smile that Francis just _knew_ was fake. "Surrender peacefully and no one gets hurt. The heroic thing to do, don't you think?"

Francis forced his legs to keep moving, even as Alfred's large, strong hand clamped on his shoulder, even as he could feel the American's blue eyes boring into the back of his dyed-brunette hair. This thing was destroying him inside. _This must be what Arthur feels like for every mission. Oh, God. Oh god oh god oh god—_

_No, no, Francis, calm down, _he told himself. _This isn't going to get you anywhere._ _Just stay calm and do what Selena told you to do. Shouldn't be hard. Right?_

Alfred shoved him into the SUV roughly—he was surprisingly strong—and Francis stumbled, his face falling flat into the leather seat. "Umph!" The impact caused him to open his fist, the one with the penny roll in it. It dropped heavily on the car floor and thumped on the carpet.

"Up, my French friend," said Alfred, apparently not noticing the penny roll, and Francis quickly righted himself. His heart was so loud in his ears it was a miracle that Alfred or Bella didn't hear it. The penny roll seemed to glow in the dark, the white paper seeming to smile up at Francis like a constant reminder of what he was going to do.

"Ah, Francis," Alfred said, closing the door, his eyes turned away from the Frenchman.

Now was the time to do it, he knew that. All he had to do was to pull the crown out of his watch. He had to do it now. Before Bella started the car. Before they suspected anything. They probably didn't suspect anything from a shaky, cowardly, naturalized Frenchman who wasn't capable of anything, let alone drop a _bomb_ into a car, dear god… If only Arthur were here…

_No, focus. Thinking of that cantankerous-tempered Brit will do nothing for you in this situation._

Alfred had moved up into the shotgun seat and was muttering into a radio phone. Bella was watching him intently.

What was Francis waiting for? He needed to do it now. Selena didn't seem to him like the very patient type. If he lingered any longer, they would have him gone in a flash.

He rubbed his watch—a normal-enough move for him, normal enough that Bella wouldn't suspect.

"Now, Francis—" Alfred turned around to look at Francis, but Francis swallowed his fear (most of it, at least) and moved his hand to the side of his watch.

"Sorry," he said quickly, before Alfred could do anything, and yanked the crown out.

"_I need you,_" Selena had told him, pressing a watch and a penny roll in his hands, _"to pull the crown out of the watch when you get inside the car. It'll activate the smoke bomb inside the penny roll, so you have to get out fast after you activate it. Otherwise you'll be taken along with them with smoke in your lungs. Although that shouldn't be a problem."_

"_What's that supposed to mean?" _Francis had asked, slightly wounded at the mouthy comment.

"_You look like a smoker,_" Selena had said, matter-of-factly.

The penny roll had reacted like Selena had said, exploding into smoke, enough smoke to make Francis gasp and cough as a result. He yanked the car door open, and staggered out onto the asphalt, still choking from the explosion. _Mon dieu, why do I trust these people?_

He climbed back into the sedan where Selena was still sitting in the drivers' seat. She looked up as he came in, hacking and spitting out smoke as he came in.

"So I guess you aren't a smoker," she said, filing her nails. "At least you did the mission right."

"I just wanna go home," Francis groaned.

"That's not an option, Francis," she said, and stepped on the gas.

xx

It was only fifteen minutes until Selena hit the brakes again. This time, instead of a deserted parking lot, it was a large house with a cherrywood exterior and not many windows. It was like some kind of high-end log cabin in the middle of a wooded property. Francis got the impression that it was much more than a log cabin. He could make out solar panels and a satellite dish on the roof, even in the darkness.

He was right. Stepping inside, the foyer alone was twenty feet tall, with a modern-style lighting fixture hanging from the vaulted ceiling. A long, rectangular pot held cacti in sand, and colorful paintings of celebrities done in smooth blobs of crimsons and turquoises hung on the walls. It was as if he had stepped into a mansion. An art-lover's mansion.

Francis wandered to a Marilyn Monroe portrait, his eyes scanning over the smooth paint on the canvas. _It was sort of like Warhol meets Chuck Close_, Francis thought vaguely. He was really quite impressed with the skill and the spirit put into it. _She has talent. _"How much did this cost?" he asked Selena.

A thunk answered him first, and he realized that Selena was pulling off her sneakers. "Shoes off," she instructed him. "And those things didn't cost a dime; I painted them myself."

Francis turned to look at her with surprise. "Really?"

"Yup," chirped an Australian voice. "That's our little Selena."

"Shut up," she told him, and he laughed.

"Francis!" The Frenchman started, and suddenly found himself in a crushing hug. Blond hair was pressed up against his cheek, soft and pale and familiar. "God," Arthur said in a strangled voice. "I let you out of my sight for an hour or two and _already—"_

"It was Selena's fault," Francis said truthfully and quietly into Arthur's ear, and though he was still quite frankly surprised by the gesture of affection, he put his arms around the other and hugged his beloved Englishman back. Forget a pretty face. Arthur was much more than that to him. Much more. He thought he heard a small snort from Dylan and an impatient sigh from Selena, but none of that mattered. Arthur had worried for him, and that was all Francis needed.

The Brit was the first to break off, his green eyes looking a bit annoyed—at what, Francis didn't know. But other than that, Arthur's expression was unreadable. Arthur put his hands on Francis's shoulders. "Stay safe, okay?"

They were about the same height, and Francis raised his eyes to meet Arthur's bright green ones. He managed a nod, and the Brit patted his shoulder and walked off.

There was a sudden hiss of a frying pan. Francis took a deep breath and smelled eggs and sausages. The scent made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. God, he couldn't believe that he was _still_ hungry, even after all those disgusting fatty foods at the amusement park, but the eggs just smelled _so good…_

"Goody," Selena said. "Jamie's famous scrambled eggs." Francis looked at her funnily; he couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

"Right. Who's in the mood for a midnight snack, hm?" Dylan gestured for them to follow him back towards the kitchen.

A man was standing a the stove wearing an old T-shirt charred with black burn marks on it (Francis shuddred to think of how those marks got there) and a pair of red plaid flannel pants. He had his back turned to him, and a frying pan in one hand. Evidently he was the mystery chef of the scrambled eggs.. although now that Francis was closer, he could smell bacon and mushrooms and bell peppers and cheese. It was making his mouth water so much that he thought the saliva would spill out of his lips and he would start drooling.

"Oy, Jamie, making omelets again?" asked Dylan, seating himself at the breakfast bar.

"Yeah, you want some?" Jamie turned and offered the frying pan with eggs to him, and Dylan shook his head.

"How about you?" He turned to Francis. "Francis Bonnefoy, is it? I'm Jamie Wellington, by the way. Dylan and Selena's brother."

Jamie Wellington had blond hair that fell over his head like a helmet, except for two spots on the sides of his head that curled in a circle like a ram's horn. It was a feature that puzzled Francis greatly, but Jamie's pale skin and warm, round features made him seem like a nice guy. Not to mention that he was smiling.

"How do you know my name?" asked Francis.

Jamie laughed. "I've heard a lot about you, that's all."

"Everyone seems to have heard a lot about me."

"That's about right," said Jamie, and slid the omelette onto a blue plate and pushed it towards Francis. "Here, you look starving. Eat up."

And Francis did. God, that omelette was amazing, perfectly season and fried and with the right about of sausage and bacon and onions and cheese. Delicious.

"You're a great cook," he said, and Jamie put a hand over his heart.

"It means a lot, because you're French," he said. "But really, it's just cuz I've had practice making these… I rather like eating breakfast at midnight."

"Like a diner," remarked Dylan.

"Exactly."

"Anyway, Francis," the Australian said, leaning back in his chair. "You and Artie are welcome to stay as long as you like."

"Thank you," Arthur said in a clipped voice. "I do believe that we ought to get some rest; it's been a rather long night. Off to bed."

And like a good little sheep, Francis was herded off upstairs to a hot shower and soft bed.

Not that he wasn't complaining. It'd been a long day.

xx

Francis woke up the next morning wrapped up in a bunch of blankets. Funny. He didn't remember being this tightly twisted in the sheets, but at least it was comfortable. It made the throbbing headache and the operation nightmare (_again_) a tiny bit better. Even so, he figured he should pop a Tylenol or something with breakfast.

Jamie, Arthur and Selena were already downstairs in the kitchen, and Jamie was cooking again. This time he was making waffles, delicious golden brown and steaming. The smell made Francis's mouth water.

"More breakfast food?" he asked, sliding into a stool at the bar. Arthur was sitting there already, his blond head buried in a newspaper and his plate empty, save for a couple of crumbs. A half-full mug of tea sat in front of him, probably Earl Grey… and judging by the peel that lay next to it, with lemon. _Typical Arthur._

"I happen to like breakfast food, especially yogurt," said Jamie happily. "Waffles?"

"_Mais oui,_" Francis replied eagerly. It was ten in the morning and he was _starving._ And he hadn't had waffles in the longest time… waffles and maple syrup and butter. Nothing like a true Belgian breakfast.

Selena yawned as Jamie flipped a couple of waffles onto a plate. "So," she said casually. "Where's Dylan?"

"He _should _be at work," said the New Zealander, turning the stove off, "but since Francis and Arthur are here, so maybe he's taking a leave? I honestly don't know where he is."

"Oh," she said. "What about—"

"—me?" sang a new voice, and a fair-skinned man in his early twenties—not any older than Arthur—waltzed in. He had copper-toned hair and bright amber eyes, sort of like Francis's old friend from Parsons, Feliciano Vargas. The man also had an odd-shaped angular hair curl that swept from the front off to his left. It was something that puzzled Francis, but the smile on the man's face soon got rid of that.

He waltzed right up to Selena and kissed her on the cheek.

"_Buongiorno!_" he exclaimed, and kissed her again.

"Agh, get away from me," she said, but then she broke down in giggles as he kissed her again. So much for the blasé attitude that she had put out at the amusement park.

It was cute, Francis had to admit. They were drippingly adorable, as adorable as baby chicks or puppies or kittens. The way they doted on each other, Francis could tell that they had been together for a long time and that they were very happy. But he couldn't help feeling just a little bit guilty for being attracted to her. It created a hard little stone in the pit of his stomach.

"PDA, Sebestiano," said Jamie good-naturedly. "Francis, this is—"

"Sebestiano Travanni," the man finished, with a wink and a small salute. Francis decided that he liked this guy.

"Are you Italian?" Francis asked as they shook hands.

"As much as gelato is," replied Sebestiano, laughing.

"Aren't you gonna go to school?" Selena asked, trying to be nonchalant and failing. Her cheeks were still pink.

"College?" Sebestiano let out a small _pfft_. "We have guests! It would be rude to not offer them the best of our hospitality!"

"Italians," Selena muttered, and Sebestiano gave her a "You know you love me" look.

"Anyway," the Italian continued, "I have to give someone something… Drumroll please!"

He pulled out a piece of paper with a flourish and placed it in front of Arthur, still reading the newspaper intently.

"Arthur," Sebestiano declared. "You are the lucky prizewinner today!"

The Brit put his paper down and frowned, the thick catepillars above his eyes knitting towards the middle of his forehead. "A bank account? Sebestiano, I know my Gemini account's been frozen, but—"

"No, no," Sebestiano said, suddenly serious. "It's your _other _account."

A slight hesitation from the Brit. "Bloody hell," he murmured, his green eyes scanning the paper. "You can't be serious."

"I am very serious now, my English friend," Sebestiano said, and picked up a piece of French toast from Selena's plate. "Althought it interested me… I received a request addressing this problem late last night."

Arthur looked up from the paper. "So soon?"

"Yes."

There was a moment where no one said anything.

"That's rather odd," Jamie said slowly. "It doesn't seem very safe to me."

"No, it's not. It can't be." Arthur put the paper down and took a sip of his tea. "There's something horribly off about this and I'm not going to."

"Dylan's always happy to lend you a credit card or two—" Selena began, but an angry shadow crossed Arthur's face.

"No," he said vehemently. "No, Dylan's not giving me anything. I'm _fine._"

"Are you su—"

"I'm _sure_, Jamie," Arthur said sharply. "Not a penny of anything, save for that lighter. Which I've already got."

"Arthur, you can't go on like this," Jamie insisted. "You have to think about Francis, and an agent can't effectively operate without his resources—"

"I know, Jamie!" Arthur snapped at him, slamming a fist down on the granite countertop. "I've been burned too, all right?"

_Burned? _It seemed like an odd choice of words to Francis, and he felt like that it had a meaning that only he didn't understand. Selena and Sebestiano were watching the two men argue, the Italian's arm draped over her shoulders. Selena's eyes were squinted slightly in concern.

"You should know, then!" Jamie yelled, his violet eyes lit up with indignant fire. "You should know that you _need this money! _For you! And for Francis!"

There was also the fact that _once again,_ they had talked about Francis like he wasn't there. And he was seriously getting tired of that.

"If I may," Sebestiano offered quietly, "the client in question offered a down payment at the consultation meeting."

Arthur blinked. "What?"

The Italian nodded. "A down payment. In cash."

A brief moment of—well, Francis didn't really know what it was but it was _something_—flashed over Arthur's face. His green eyes flicked towards Francis for a split second, making the Frenchman's heart jump.

"Oh, all right," the Brit said, a renewed steeliness in his green eyes. "I will go."

"Should I tell him that now, then?" Sebestiano removed his arm from Selena's shoulders and made to go up the back staircase.

"Yes," Arthur said.

"Tell him that it's a deal."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ~ <strong>

I am so sorry this took so long! D: I rushed this a little bit, so if there are typos or inconsistencies, then review and tell me. :)

Sebestiano Travanni = Seborga! :) I love this little micronation to death. I love him and Wy together to death.

One of my pet peeves about Hetalia is how people don't realize that England and France are actually the same height. No, seriously. I know I sort of disregarded this in the first chapter, but after my friend pointed it out to me, I realized…

England = 175 cm  
>France = 175 cm<p>

If 175 is not equal to 175, then shoot me now.

…And I'll totally admit, I was totally thinking of the Wellington's house looking like the Cullens' house from _Twilight_. Except with not a completely glass back because, hello, snipers. XD Not to mention a total breakage hazard? Seriously, have some more practicality, Stephenie Meyer. :PPP

p.s. for some reason I wanted to tell you guys: I draw a lot of inspiration from these shows; I think you should check them out ;)  
>+ <em>Burn Notice <em>(USA)_  
>+ Nikita <em>(CW)  
>+ <em>IRIS<em> (KBS)  
>+ <em>Chuck <em>(NBC)  
>Yeah, i know there aren't a lot BUT I LIKE THEM OKAY? XD over and out ~<p> 


	9. trojan horse

**9. trojan horse**

Francis sat alone in Starbucks, drinking a macchiato and reading.

At his feet sat a black bag with his things in it, and on the table in front of him was an iPod. Earphones ran from its jack into his ears, but he wasn't listening to anything. No music was even playing.

Francis wasn't even reading. He was thinking.

He was thinking about home. The city they were in reminded him vaguely of home, but there weren't as many skyscrapers as there were in New York. It didn't have the same sense of adventure and glamor that New York had. It didn't have the European coziness that Francis always associated with Paris, either.

Chicago was definitely an odd city.

Nowadays, Francis hadn't felt comfortable anywhere. Except for maybe at the Wellington's house. Or was 'mansion' the right word for it? Either way, it didn't really matter—it had good food, good people, and art. Like his apartment with Arthur back in New York. It felt like home.

They'd spent one last day there after the day at the amusement park, and Selena had approached him with a present of a sketchbook and graphite pencils.

"You ought to draw more if you're an art student," she'd said. He'd taken it gratefully; it had been too long since he had anything to draw with. He'd started to feel a little twitchy from the lack of creating he'd gone through.

As they stood in the driveway in front of the SUV, Dylan had pressed a credit card into Arthur's hands. The Brit had refused it, but Dylan insisted.

"Arthur, take it," the Australian had insisted. "Think of it as my thank-you."

"You've already done enough of that," said Arthur.

"I can never thank you enough," Dylan said.

Arthur had hesitated slightly, and then taken the plastic card without any more complaint, a stony look in his green eyes. Francis wondered vaguely what Arthur had done for a thank-you present of a _credit card_, but the Brit had thrown him into the car so fast that Francis didn't have time to think.

A crackle jolted the Frenchman out of reminiscing, and he checked the iPod display. It showed a normal screen with the strangest names in the title.

**Song: **Looking Out For Something Outside  
><strong>Artist: <strong>Air Supply  
><strong>Album: <strong>Life Support

Francis didn't know what the hell Air Supply was, but he didn't really want to know. Dylan, apparently, had the oddest taste in music.

And yet it wasn't even a song. It was a listening device.

Arthur had gone off to the "consultation meeting" with the client—whose name was Alexander or something of the other. Francis had wanted to go, but Arthur wouldn't let him. Instead, the Frenchman had stayed behind, listening to the staticky feed that was streaming through the microphone hidden in Arthur's black earring. It was rather boring, Francis thought, absently turning a page of his book. He must have been reallly bored to jump at a single crackle in the flood of white noise.

He put the book down—he wasn't really reading it anyway—and took out his sketchbook, running his hands over the smooth white paper. Dieu, nothing spoke to him more than the lure of blank paper or a blank canvas. It was just teeming with possibilities, waiting to be covered in sketches.

His hand seemed to move on its own, sketching in loose, thin lines. Yup, there was a contour of a cheek; the thin, subtle curves of a cheek; an eye, shrouded with blond lashes… It took a couple minutes for Francis to realize that he was drawing Arthur. It was almost subconciously that Francis had started drawing Arthur's thick catepillars of eyebrows. He blinked down at the sketch. The resemblance was nearly identical to the Brit, it was uncanny—

"Hullo."

Francis jumped at the sudden sound of the Brit's voice in his ear—like, _really_ in his ear—until he realized that he was wearing earphones and listening to an iPod of a listening device.

"Yes, Arthur Kirkland for Alex—" Arthur's voice was cut off by another voice that was muffled in static.

"Arthur!" said a man in an Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe? Francis couldn't tell, his voice was muffled with static.

"Ah," said the Brit. "You must be Mr. Fidatov."

"Call me Alexandur," said the man easily. "And who else would I be?"

Arthur didn't say anything—Francis guessed that he was shrugging.

"Yes, let us get going, yes? Up to my office."

Muffled footsteps followed, along with the click of a door opening and closing. Then clinking. It sounded like glass to Francis.

"Would you like something to drink?" asked Alexander. "Water, tea, vodka…?"

"No thank you," said Arthur, and Francis bit his lip to keep from laughing. The notion was all too hilarious: Arthur! Refusing tea!

"Then let us get down to business," said Alexandur.

Some shuffling papers in the background.

"I simply want you to retrieve this for me," said the man with the Eastern European accent—Francis still thought of him as that—and there was a pause.

"A briefcase," the Brit said with no emotion in his voice.

"Yes," said Alexandur. "It is located in this hotel in this man's room. BA-ID 194881039328. As you can see, he is a trained operative. I believe he has been an activated agent for an extremely short amount of time—or so intel tells me—but I fear he is quite the spy. Very natural tradecraft instincts."

"No problem," Arthur said immediately. "I, too, was like that once."

"Yes, I am glad you have confidence, Arthur," said Alexandur. More paper shuffling. Francis was a little annoyed by all the background noise. He wished that they'd installed a camera instead of a microphone so he could actually see what was going on.

"Now," continued the man with the Eastern European accent, "there will be a perfect oppurtunity tomorrow evening at 1900 hours. It will be just a charity event. Black tie. You will, I think, be able to easily slip away from the crowd and take it and leave.

"I have also prepared a place where you may stay—it's an apartment in the city, although I think you will have to drive quite a bit to reach the hotel where it is taking place."

"That is very kind of you," said Arthur.

"Yes. As is this." Some more shuffling. "The down payment, as requested."

"Thank you," replied the Brit.

"Of course," said Alexander, chuckling. Francis didn't have a very good feeling about that chuckle.

"And," he added, "You are welcome to bring a plus-one to the event, if you wish."

"I'm fine, thank you," said Arthur.

"Very well. Best of luck to you then."

xx

"So what did he look like?" Francis asked in the elevator—or as Arthur called it, the "lift." "Was he Russian? There was definitely an accent—"

"Shut up, Francis," said Arthur duly.

"But seriously," Francis said. "_I _wasn't the one who was there, _I _didn't get to see the man—"

"Fine," sighed Arthur. "He was about our height, ginger hair, reddish eyes. And he's Romanian."

"Romanian?" Francis asked.

"Yes. Are you done now?" Arthur stepped out of the elevator and walked towards the apartment.

"Sure," said Francis, as Arthur wrestled with the keys for a brief moment.

"Bloody keys," he muttered, and the door swung open into a beautiful apartment.

It was rather large and spacious for an apartment. Usually apartments were quite a bit smaller, Francis would know because he'd lived in one ever since he was a toddler. But this, this apartment was huge. The furniture was made all of steel and leather and smooth surfaces. The walls were painted a calming green and hung with odd works of art that rather reminded Francis of Jackson Pollock, although he realized that they probably _were_ real Jackson Pollocks. He muttered swears under his breath.

Francis collapsed on the sofa. He was damn tired.

"Well," Arthur remarked, running a hand through his hair. "Looks like this bad boy has some money on him."

"_Il est beau, cet apartamente," _Francis agreed vaguely.

"_Mais oui,_" said Arthur vaguely. "_Alexandur est très riche._"

"_Je peux—_Wait, you can speak French?" Francis looked at him in surprise.

"Francis," Arthur said with an edge of annoyance. "I know a lot of things. _Ne pas être un idiot. Grenouille._"

The Brit never ceased to amaze. Francis blinked, slightly pleased that Arthur knew the language of love—_but for the true language of love, I would imagine him to be quite dense._ The thought passed through his head with a slight chuckle. He supposed that he ought to not say flirtatious things in French anymore, especially since the other man knew what they meant now… but he rather did like saying them…

"Francis, you can take the spare room over there," Arthur said suddenly.

"Oh… of course." Francis made to move from the leather couch, but Arthur shook his head.

"You should take some time to relax first," he said, walking away briskly so that his voice floated from the kitchen. "Big day tomorrow. And dinner—do you want to make it?" he asked, poking his blond head from the fridge.

Francis thought of Arthur's disastrous attempt to make soup the night of Gilbert Beilschmidt's death, and immediately headed for the kitchen before he had to call in the Poison Center.

They ended up eating escargots for dinner—score for Francis, since it'd been a long time since he'd eaten any actual French food. They were somehow in the fridge, along with a bunch of other things that Francis hadn't eaten since he was in primary school in France. It was nice, to have a taste of home after being stuck in the car going across the country at seventy miles per hour. It had been too long since he'd had _ratatouille _just like his mother made it.

Arthur had eaten the snails up with gusto, and downed the thick onion soup that Francis had made to go with it. He was a hungry little bugger, stabbing the bits of tomatoes and bell peppers in the _ratatouille_ like he had a personal vendetta against vegetables. Francis couldn't help but smile.

"What?" Arthur snapped, stuffing his face with bread.

"Nothing," Francis said, trying to suppress a laugh.

Later, upon further exploration, Francis discovered that the liquor cabinet had a bottle of _la fée verte—_absinthe. Arthur refused it initially, but after Francis poured the green liquid into a glass, he asked for one. Francis didn't mind.

They drank and watched a movie. Francis didn't remember the name of it, but it was in black and white and in a foreign language, neither French or English. Italian, maybe? Arthur seemed to understand it. It had cars and pretty women in _haute couture_ and European streets. It had some plot involving romance and murder and glamor. It also happened to make Arthur drift off to sleep.

It was a little over halfway through the movie, when Francis noticed Arthur's blond head resting on his shoulder. The Brit's chest rose and fell steadily and he shifted slightly to move closer to Francis.

Francis was tired. Too tired to have sex, like he probably would at this point of the day. And it was hard to have sex with a sleeping man.

So he wrapped his arms around Arthur and heaved the Brit up, dragging the blond man to the bedroom. He was pretty heavy—Arthur was—for such a skinny little bugger, but Francis managed to lay him down in his bed. He unbuttoned his shirt so Arthur would be more comfortable.

He stepped back to admire his work, but Arthur frowned in his sleep.

"Francis," he murmured. "Francis, be safe."

It was really quite odd. Francis had never heard Arthur say anything in his sleep before—they'd always slept in the same room and the Brit had always remained quiet. Of course, Francis was always out cold the instant his head hit the pillow, so he wouldn't know.

But Arthur looked so very safe and innocent and young. It was tempting.

"Francis," Arthur whimpered. "Francis…"

Francis didn't know how the Brit was planning to finish that sentence. He didn't care.

Slowly, he sat down on the bed, and leaned back so that he was lying next to Arthur, edging himself closer so that their feet mingled, so that Francis could feel the heat emanating from the Brit, could distinctly see the rise and fall of his bare shoulders.

"Shh…" Francis reached out and patted Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur shifted slightly.

"Francis," he murmured. "I'm sorry…"

"Arthur, shush," said Francis very sleepily. "_Laissez-nous dormir."_

"Francis," he said again, but Francis closed his eyes, and put a finger to Arthur's lips.

"_Bon nuit,_" said Francis.

xx

It didn't take long for the next day to pass quickly. Before Francis knew it, it was only an half-hour before Arthur had to leave.

Francis had been reading a newspaper—he was really very bored—when Arthur walked in.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Go change!"

Francis looked up, and had to bite his lip from… well, he didn't know what exactly. But he had to control himself.

The Brit had traded his worn-down wifebeater and hoodie for a smart black jacket and green shirt—olive green like the shadows that hung in his irises. A black tie and trousers finished the look. The jacket was slightly open, and he was slipping something in it. Francis couldn't get a good look at it, because Arthur finished with a glare.

And he wasn't paying attention too much. Here it was, his favorite Englishman wearing a suit. He loved Englishmen. And he loved suits.

_Dieu._

"Francis, let's go, change!" Arthur snapped his fingers annoyingly in Francis's face, and the Frenchman jolted out of his reverie.

"What? Why? I'm not going anywhere," Francis said. "You're the one going to a black-tie event."

"And you're coming with me," the Brit said. He checked a silver watch on his wrist that Francis hadn't noticed before. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"What—I—okay. All right. Okay." Francis put his newspaper down and did as Arthur bade him.

Then Francis had been shoved into the back o a dirty, cramped taxi with a suit on, and from the feel of it, it was Ralph Lauren. Arthur was looking out the window intently, apparently very interested in the Chicago skyline. Francis wondered why they would take a taxi, but he supposed Arthur was cheap or something like that. At this point, he didn't really care, except that Arthur was wearing a suit. Francis wasn't sure he could actually process anything else.

They pulled up in front of a hotel—like Alexandur had said—and Arthur seemed to wake up. He got out of the car very quickly, leaving Francis to give the driver their fare before hurrying to follow the Brit.

"Arthur," he muttered as he caught up with the Brit's brisk pace. "Remind me again why I'm here."

"Because I want you to be here," said Arthur with a stingy look at him. "And _do not _take that the wrong way."

"Toooo late," Francis said teasinly, and was rewarded with a punch to the stomach."

"Stop with the karate, please," he groaned. "It hurts!"

"_Krav maga_," Arthur snarled, his green eyes staring straight ahead. "And it's _supposed_ to hurt."

The lobby opened up into a large hall, lit with gold chandeliers and decorated with elaborate hangings of red velvet and gold. All of it was very grandiose and palatial and all of the words that Francis couldn't think of at the moment. He felt like he had been transported back to the eighteenth century, the designs on the walls and vaulted ceilings were so meticulate and detailed… it made him feel very insignificant, even in his smart navy suit, which didn't seem to live up to the beauty of the room. It wasn't very often that Francis felt out of place, but he did. Even if everyone else around him wore similar things as he and Arthur were on them it looked so much more dignified.

Arthur strode confidently in, his chin up and head held high. A sudden smile broke out on his face—something that although Francis enjoyed, still shocked him a good deal—and his green eyes shone with a very soft happiness. His usually brisk manner disappeared, and he became very loose and relaxed. Francis, contrarily unsure of himself, stumbled to follow.

They stopped by a table of food, where Arthur helped himself to a cookie. Francis ogled the chocolate fountain for a moment, before turning to the Brit.

"So, what do we do now?" he whispered to Arthur.

"Mingle. Eat. Drink." Arthur helped himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "Get away from me, you look suspicious following me around."

"But I like being with you," Francis teased, and Arthur turned a reddish color.

"Shut it," Arthur hissed back, hiding his face by drinking some more of the golden wine. Francis couldn't help but laugh.

They were interruppted by a sudden "Arthur?"

They turned around to see a very pale man. He wasn't particularly tall, maye a few inches shy of Francis's own 175 centimeters tall. He had very pale blond hair, lighter than either Francis's or Arthur's was styled in a very modern fashion, with the long strands of blond falling straight across his forehead. The left section was pulled back with a cross-shaped barrette, pushing the rest of the hair back. His suit was colored a deep indigo—one of Francis's favorite colors, to boot—and matched his large eyes that were full of disbelief.

Arthur's cheeks were still a slight pink, and something in his green eyes flickered—emotion? Shock? It was hard to tell; they were guarded like always.

"Eirik," he said in his crisp British accent, his voice not giving away a hint of anything.

"Arthur? What are you doing here?" Eirik asked.

"I would ask you that," said Arthur with a smile—how that still sent shivers down Francis's spine. Oh dear god. Arthur should smile more. Arthur should definitely smile more.

"But blimey, how long has it been?" Arthur was still talking. Francis mentally banged his head on the table so he could try and maintain focus. As usual, it didn't work.

"It's been quite a bit," Eirik said, with a new, relaxed demeanor. He seemed to have relaxed once he saw Arthur's grin. "So long that you've seemed to make new friends," he added, nodding towards Francis.

"Right, Francis, this is Eirik Jensen, an old classmate of mine." Arthur gestured to each person respectively. Francis blinked and shook hands with the Norweigian, totally not alarmed or anything by Eirik's still-chill demeanor. No, of course not. What was he thinking?

"So, Arthur," said Eirik after helping himself to champagne. "What have you done since our days of youth in high school?"

"Oh, this and that," Arthur said vaguely, avoiding drinking his own glass of wine. "It's all been quite a blur. Five years go by quickly."

"I'll drink to that," the pale man said. "I've done so much—moving to Chicago, taking care of the family business… and well, Mathias disappearing and all that…"

"True," Arthur said. "It's been rough on everyone."

A heartbeat of silence. "Well, no time to dwell on depressing things," Eirik said quickly. "I ought to move on, I have more people to talk to. How long are you going to stay here?"

"Not long," the Brit replied. "We leave tomorrow."

"Then let me take you," Eirik insisted. "I'm sure my driver will drive you to where you're staying."

"Yes, of course," Arthur said, after a split-second of thought.

"Good." The pale man nodded in satisfaction, his expression (oddly) faintly relieved, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Arthur's face slid back to its usual slight scowl. "Bloody hell, I thought he was _never _going to leave."

"Then why did you accept his invitation?" asked Francis.

"Free transportation," said Arthur matter-of-factly. "I think it's about time that we get going, yes?"

xx

Francis stood at the edge of the room, feeling very nervous. Dear God, why was he always stuck in these situations? He was such a pushover. He definitely needed to work on that.

Arthur walked confidently across the hall. Not over-confidently. Enough confident that he didn't look like a wimp, but not so confident that he came off as arrogant. The overall effect was a very calm, cool and collected Arthur Kirkland. Like the Brit always was. Exactly the opposite of what Francis was feeling inside.

The person that Arthur was heading towards, that was the man with the BA-ID 194881039328. The long string of numbers that somehow Francis could remember, even though his short-term memory was horrible. No matter. Francis fixed his eyes on the person who was only called BA-ID 194881039328 and noticed things. He noticed the easy, relaxed stance of that person. He noticed the curly brown hair, tousled and tangled and untamable, the olive skin and the white shirt that set it off, the round green eyes that had once been full of innocence.

A very familiar face.

As if Francis's nervousness wasn't already bad enough. He was dealing with enough _merde_ without having his ghosts chase after him. His hands were shaking horribly , his knees wobbly and unstable, his neck sweating a cover of sweat. He was already having a near-panic attack, _without _having to deal with his old haunts. Especially a familiar Spanish former friend of his from his high school days.

But _dieu_ how his friend had changed! Antonio looked so incredibly different—the green eyes, once full of sunshine and laughter, had hardened like Arthur's own steely eyes, but it wasn't like Arthur's eyes at all. Arthur's eyes were very sad. Arthur's eyes hid a pain, a great heartwrenching pain that broke him inside. Arthur's eyes were shadowed with a mysterious past and a melancholy that haunted his every step.

Antonio's eyes, on the other hand, were hard and angry. So very angry.

Francis got a sinking feeling that he had somehow caused that anger. Somehow transforming his carefree Spanish friend into a man who was just _so full of anger_ that it vibrated in the guy's limbs, in his eyes, in his hair, in the tense way he carried himself. It was just anger and betryal and a hurting lashing pain.

Arthur scratched his ear with his left hand, a signal that they were to begin, and began to walk across the room. Francis began walking slowly, too, careful to keep both the blond Brit and the curly-haired Spaniard in his vision.

No matter how painful it was.

Arthur proceeded to walk up to Antonio, and with wide green eyes he said very loudly "Blimey!"

Antonio looked at Arthur with very confused eyes and an annoyed mouth. "_Dios, _I think—"

Arthur threw his arms around him. "Oh dear god, it's been _forever!_ How have you _been?_"

"I don't—you've got the wrong—"

"Don't act like you don't know me, you little bugger!"

Arthur continued to babble on, and Francis had walked far enough to touch Antonio. Case in point. The little rectangle of a card was barely visible in the Spaniard's back pocket. All Francis had to do, while Arthur was distracting Antonio, was to slip his fingers inside the pocket and grab the card. Precisely and carefully. And that's what he did.

The key card went into Francis's pocket, and he muttered a soft apology as he bumped against Antonio. Just in case.

Then he forced himself to walk slowly to the bar. His heart was beating in his ears.

What a terrifying and thrilling experience. So very terrifying, but so very thrilling. Francis could still feel the adrenaline pumping through his system. And he'd _gotten away with it. _He could still hear the pumping of blood in his ears as his body calmed down from the sheer rush of it.

Arthur met him at the bar, and they took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Turned right. Walked down maybe thirty feet or so. And fumbling, fumbling, Francis used his trembling hands to pull the key card out of his pocket and open the door to room 1123.

The room was nice. Rather impersonal, but all hotels were. The walls were a beige color and accents of red and white and black were found everyone. It was stylish and modern and nice. There wasn't really any other word to describe it.

The Brit strode forward and instantly knelt at a safe. It had a number pad on it. He swore under his breath. "You can't be serious."

"_Quoi?_" Francis asked. "I mean, what?"

"Number pad…" Arthur frowned in concentration. "A four-digit code. I've seen this kind of safe before, but…"

"But what?"

"These things… Francis, do you _know _how long it takes to crack one of these things? There are thousands and thousands of possiblities for a stupid simple four-digit code!" Arthur curled his fists in his hair and let out a growl of frustration. "Goddammit!"

Francis blinked. He had a sudden recollection of a memory from high school… a scene in a cafeteria. He and Gilbert were sitting in the far table, tucked away in a corner, and they were watching Antonio make a fool of himself. Then there was a small napkin—yes. There were seven numbers printed very neatly on it, a girl's handwriting. He remmbered those numbers very clearly—_573…_

"One-five-eight-nine," Francis said.

Arthur looked up. "What?"

"One five eight nine. It's the code. It has to be."

"How do you know that?" Arthur asked, suspicion flashing in his eyes.

"This one time in high school," Francis explained, "Antonio used this very elaborate act to get a girls' number. You don't happen to know the classic 'you've had a bad fall from heaven… angel' line?"

A silence and a slight disapproving I-don't-have-time-for-this-bull frown told him no.

"Oh? Well, it worked, and the girl's number was five-seven-three—"

"One-five-eight-nine, I got it." Arthur punched in the digits and a small light on the safe blinked green. The door popped open easily. Arthur sent a half-approving look at Francis (which sent shivers down to the base of the Frenchman's spine) and grabbed the gray briefcase that sat inside.

"Let's go."

xx

They walked across the lobby again, dropping the key card onto the front desk with an excuse that they'd found it on the ground.

Eirik was waiting outside the doors. He had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and snatches of English punctuated his endless stream of some Nordic language.

When he saw Francis, he put the phone away after a hurried good-bye and looked at them with that same relieved look as before. "Ah, there you are," he said, and his eyes slid to the briefcase. "What is that?"

"Nothing you need wory about," Arthur said smoothly. "I'm feeling a bit tired, so shall we go home now?"

But at that very moment, Francis felt a sudden urge. An urge that made him feel a little guilty, but if he didn't do anything about it, it would result in humiliation.

"If I may," Francis said. "I… uh… have to use the restroom."

Arthur groaned. "All right. I'm coming with you."

"Arthur, I'm not a little kid," Francis said in a slightly strangled voice. "I don't need help."

Arthur gave him a don't-question-it look, and handed the briefcase to Eirik.

"Take care of this until we get back," Arthur said briskly, and Eirik was left dumbfounded as they hurried off.

It was only a couple of minutes, really, until they were once more walking through the lobby. Arthur's phone rang.

He flicked it open, and put it to his ear. "Kirkland."

"Hello, Arthur," rumbled a familiar accented voice, scratchy from the signal. It was quite loud, and as Francis was standing next to Arthur, he could hear it quite well. "Do you have it?"

Arthur frowned. "If it is—"

"Do you have the briefcase?" Alexander clarified.

"Well—I—" Francis hadn't seen Arthur look this uneasy before, and it scared him. Not in that way, but Arthur was always so put together that if he was scared then something must have been seriously wrong.

"_Do you have the briefcase?_"

"Yes."

A heartbeat of silence. "Good-bye, Arthur."

_Click._

A sudden realization dawned on the Englishman's face. "It's a trap," he whispered hoarsely. "It's all a trap…"

"What?" Francis didn't follow, but Arthur was already moving.

"Eirik!" And Arthur was running towards the revolving doors of the hotel, through which Francis could still see Eirik holding the briefcase, looking at his watch with a slightly impatient look.

"Eirik!" Arthur screamed again, but it was too late.

Francis didn't even hear the explosion; it all sounded like he was underwater, and all the sounds were muffled and low-pitched and slow. Even then the sound blew his eardrums out, and all that he could see was a huge cloud of bright orange-yellow light. By instinct his knees buckled and his arms flew up to protect his face and his eyes squeezed shut so that he fell to the floor, the hard contact jarring to his bones. A protective hand that Francis knew to be Arthur's rested on his shoulder. Francis looked up to see the Brit's face twisted in pain, and even through that Arthur jerked his head towards the back of the hotel. Francis stumbled to stand and follow the running Brit.

It was quiet when they burst out the back door. Quiet except for the sound of their panting. Francis was exhausted but he'd pretty much been like that ever the whole thing began. The explosions, the gunfire, the fighting, the rush of all of it—it was crazy, he had to admit. It shook him up and it exhausted him, but he got an odd rush out of it that made him want to throw his head back and laugh.

Francis wiped his forehead. _Dieu, _what a rush.

He slid his blue eyes sideways to look at Arthur, who was leaning on a brick wall, breathing heavily. The look in Arthur's eyes was dark and haunted. He had his fingers curled into his blond hair, and tears were rolling down his face.

"Oh, God," the Brit whispered hoarsely, and every bit of adrenaline coursing through Francis's body whooshed to his brain, causing him to feel slightly dizzy.

"Arthur, what is it?" he forced himself to say.

Arthur laughed very humorlessly, the sounds of his laughter echoing off the metal trash bins and walls and night sky. He wiped his face with a jacket sleeve.

"I'm such a bloody horrible person," he said quietly, so quiet Francis could barely hear him. "So bloody horrible."

Francis stood, stunned and unable to move, as Arthur collapsed onto the concrete ground and muttered three words.

"_Mathias, I'm sorry._"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ~<strong>

Alexandur Fidatov = Romania  
>Eirik Jensen = Norway<p>

I think I nearly died writing this chapter. I'm really sorry about the space between updates. I wonder sometimes if people remember what happened last chapter. Hell, I don't even remember what happened last chapter.

Chapter 10 will be kind of a tossup. So it'll be a while to another update again.

I'm sorry *sob* **I love reviews, they keep this story going. *heart***


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